


as the winter to foul weather

by benzos



Series: no sooner loved [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Abortion, Angst, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Miscommunication, Mpreg, To be clear: no cis mpreg/no butt babies, Trans Character, in fact no babies at all, unless you count the cats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-11 21:41:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 45,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5642950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benzos/pseuds/benzos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Lou, this is—this is a miracle, you realize that? Like, this wasn’t supposed to happen.”</p><p>“Exactly.”</p><p>-</p><p>AU. An unplanned pregnancy throws a spanner into Harry and Louis' relationship. It wasn't supposed to go like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was born out of many things but is mostly self-indulgent if I'm honest. None of this happened (in our universe). Blanket warning for references to past/present eating disorder, descriptions of disordered thought patterns, body dysmorphia, intrusive thoughts and so on. A good number of references to vomiting (not self-induced). I think that's it!
> 
> PS if you'd like you can come say hi to me on tumblr! @churchrat or Twitter @kay_leonora xx
> 
> [Here](http://churchrat.tumblr.com/post/137299602350/fic-as-the-winter-to-foul-weather-45k) is a post for this fic that you can reblog if so inclined!

_"You and you are sure together,_ _  
As the winter to foul weather."_

William Shakespeare, _As You Like It,_ Act IV, Scene iv

 

***

 

Just past seven, the bathroom door slams shut, and Harry sighs, going to set down the two cups of tea in his hands on the table by the settee—he has to maneuver a bit to get coasters under them—and almost tripping over a box that Ganymede had insisted on keeping from Christmas. It’s got little clumps of her fur lining it now. She needs brushing.

 

He pads down the hall and avoids the board with the nail sticking up. He’d ruined his favorite pair of socks on it last week. They really should get a rug for this hallway; it’s on their list. Harry rocks back and forth in front of the door for a moment before softly knocking, gentle as he can, and leaning against the wood. It’s cool against his cheek.

 

“Lou?” he calls, feeling the vibration against his own skin. He thinks he hears soft retching on the other side, and his heart clenches a little at the sense-memory. “You alright in there?”

 

A proper cough, then, hacking and wet. Louis’ voice is small and rough when he hears it. “Fine, love. Just a bit nauseous.”

 

“Did you sick up?”

 

“Just a bit. Not much. I’ll be fine. Tactical chunder, that.” Harry cracks a smile at that.

 

“You sure? I can call Kate, reschedule if you want. It’s no trouble.” It would be, but if Louis is ill Harry doesn’t mind some trouble. Louis is rubbish at taking care of himself when he’s poorly, and even worse at admitting that he wants someone to take care of him. Harry’s gotten quite good at it, though, over the years. His advisor can wait.

 

“Nah, Haz, you go on. I’ll see you later.”

 

“Are you really sure?”

 

“ _Yes,_ love, I’m fine.” The eye-roll accompanying it is almost audible. Harry can practically see it.

 

He doesn’t buy it. “I could drop you at the doctor’s on my way, it’s no trouble,” he coaxes.

 

Louis pauses for a moment, and Harry hears the toilet flush and the pipes beneath his feet groaning. “If it’ll make you stop fretting, I s’pose. You’re not going to be late?”

 

“Nah.” He probably will, but he’s never been all that punctual, and his advisor knows it. He’s particularly liable to showing up half an hour late with the wrong chapter of his dissertation printed out.

 

Ganymede sidles up behind him to wind in between his legs, rubbing her face on his shins. One of her teeth catches a bit on his jeans. He bends down to scratch her head and under her chin. When Louis opens the door, she darts into the bathroom. Thank God for his boyfriend’s reflexes—he takes it in stride when she jumps at his chest, holding her to it and kissing the top of her head. His face is a bit sweaty, hairs at the base of his neck curling and darkened, cheeks flushed and dark bags under his eyes. He’s beautiful. Harry presses the back of one hand to his forehead reflexively—he’s not warm, almost a bit cool. Louis bats Harry’s hand away with one of his small ones and grimaces, ducking Harry’s attempt to kiss him.

 

“’m gross, don’t. D’you know where my trainers are?”

 

“Under the sofa.”

 

“Thanks, love.” Louis ducks down to kiss Harry’s hand and foists Ganymede into his arms. She meows, and starts licking Harry’s fingers.

 

“Thank you, baby,” he tells her.

 

Louis rolls his eyes but does his little tight-lipped, fond smile. “Sometimes I think you love my cat more than you love me, you know.”

 

Harry clutches her closer. “She’s _our cat,_ Lou. I named her.”

 

“Don’t I know it,” Louis laughs.

 

Harry pouts. “Heeeeey.”

 

“I’m just kidding, love, I think it’s a lovely name. She’s lovely. You’re lovely, and you’re going to be late.” Louis’ voice is a bit strained, but Harry doesn’t mention it.

 

Harry looks back at Ganymede. “You hear that? We’re lovely.” She rubs her face against his jaw, nose a little cold.

 

“You do love her more than me, though.” He gives the cat a pointed look. “She knows it. Don’t you, you little devil,” he coos. Ganymede flicks the end of her tail a bit in acknowledgement.

 

Harry nods, and pecks her head before setting her down. She stalks off, seemingly offended. “At least she’ll kiss me.”

 

Louis scoffs. “She licks her own arse, mate.” Harry wrinkles his nose. “Oh, so arse eating is gross now, I’ll keep that in mind.” Harry giggles. Louis coughs, and jerks his head towards the door. “We going, then?”

 

Harry grins and rocks back on his heels. “Not until you kiss me,” he sing-songs, drawing the syllables out the way Louis makes fun of him for but which work on him every time. Practically.

 

Louis pecks him on the lips and tries to hide the way he smiles into it, and they’re off. If Harry flicks his gaze to his left more than usual during the drive, well, they don’t crash. He drops Louis outside the surgery nearest them, the one where they went when Harry split his thumb open in October chopping a squash.

 

Harry tries one more time. “You sure you don’t want me to cancel? I can come in with you.” Louis doesn’t like doctors, will avoid going unless absolutely necessary. He must be feeling worse than he’s letting on.

 

“I’m sure, love. Go be brilliant, I’ll see you later. Love you.”

 

“Love you too. Text me?”

 

By the time Harry’s gotten to campus, Louis’ sent him a picture of himself pulling his monkey face, and then one of his arm whilst a nurse draws blood from it, with the syringe emoji. Harry saves both before knocking on Katherine’s door.

 

***

 

Louis wakes up around half five with his chest hurting something fierce. Harry’s not home yet—not unusual, these things always run over—and he checks for a text. Sure enough: _Meeting ran long & then I went to the library for a bit. I’ll pick up takeaways if you want. What would you like?_

 

He sits up, careful not to dislodge Ganymede, and blinks hard to adjust to the dim light. He’s not nauseous anymore, thank God, but he’s fallen asleep in his binder again and it’s cutting into his armpits, his breasts tender and aching. Ganymede grumbles and shifts, resettling before resuming a steady, deep purr. He’s not going to be able to get it off without waking her up. He sighs and deliberates for a minute. In the end, his need to breathe freely wins out and he wriggles around and wrestles with the material until he’s not all caged up and pressed down.

 

Ganymede moves to resettle on his chest, one of her paws pressing down on a nipple, and he yelps. She digs her claws in a bit before leaping off him, startled.

 

“Ow,” he moans, and rubs a hand across his chest. She might’ve drawn blood. “What,” he says, at the glare she’s leveling him with. She just licks a paw and then stalks off into the kitchen.

 

“Alright then,” he mutters. The throbbing is starting to ease, but there’s still that troublesome tenderness, and he’s too aware every time he breathes in. Whatever. His body fucking hates him. He loads up the newest episode of Bake-Off after getting his laptop from the floor and waiting for it to boot up, and takes a glance at the mound of marking he’s left on the table. He’ll do it later.

 

He texts Harry back as he’s settling in with his favorite blanket and the quarter-final. _Curries pls ! My usual. Thanks love xx_

 

He’s asleep again before they begin the technical, and when he wakes up to the door opening, Ganymede’s re-settled on his thighs.

 

“Hi, love,” Harry calls. Louis catches a waft of Chicken Tikka and his stomach rolls. His body _hates_ him. “How was the doctor’s?”

 

“Fine,” Louis replies. He coughs to dislodge the gunk in his throat. “Fine. Probably just ate something odd, nothing to worry about. How was your meeting?”

 

“Good, good,” Harry says. He’s still got his scarf on when he comes in the living room, cheeks and nose pinked. He looks beautiful, like he just stepped out of some Victorian novel, though the carrier bag in his right hand detracts a little from the image. As does Harry nearly overbalancing when he goes to lean down and kiss Louis’ cheek. Louis laughs into the kiss and puts a hand on his shoulder.

 

“Woah, there, Bambi. All right?”

 

Harry drops his bag with a _thunk._ He’s carrying too many books, that’s what’s making him tip over, but Louis will never get sick of teasing him for the clumsy way he carries all that body of his, too-long limbs flailing about like he’s just got them yesterday.

 

Harry’s eyes light up, and his deep, slow voice is a tick faster than normal. “’m fine. Kate’s really lovely, I always forget that, like, I start thinking she’s like, this, you know, infallible, intimidating person, ‘cos she’s so like, blunt over email, and I respect her work so much, but she’s just really cool. She and her wife are trying for a baby, did you know? I think I told you. She showed me pictures of the donor they’re using, he’s quite fit, and this really important mathematician, I think. He does something with astronomy, I’m not sure, actually. She explained it but I didn’t understand.”

 

Louis smiles. “I think you mentioned, yeah. That’s lovely, I hope they have good luck.”

 

“Me too.” Harry grins. “They’re such a lovely couple. Annette’s not in town just now, she’s at a conference in…I forget, somewhere in the south of France, I think. Sounds nice. Kate’s going to go join her for a few days after.”

 

Louis pokes him in the pec, and Harry squawks. “How come you never take me to the south of France, my bigshot academic boyfriend?”

 

Harry grimaces. “Hardly,” he says, and then giggles and kisses him again, just light, more a warm brush of lips than anything else. His skin is dry and cracked, and he runs his tongue over it when he pulls back. “I love you. How are you feeling? Can I get you anything?”

 

“I really am fine. Just want to cuddle for a bit, if that’s alright.”

 

“Food?”

 

Louis wrinkles his nose. It really is turning his stomach inside out to even smell it, see it in the same room as him. “In a bit, love. C’mere, you big lump.”

 

One of the things he loves the most about Harry is his dogged determination to make himself smaller than he is. Harry was taller than him when they met, and practically towers over him now, but he still curls up in on himself to cuddle with Louis, practically purring as he slots in front of him, broad back pressed to Louis’ chest. The wings of his shoulderblades dig into his tender chest a bit, and Louis winces but puts his arm around Harry’s middle, sneaking up under his shirt to splay against his warm, smooth skin. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

 

“Y’alright?” Harry slurs. He’s tired, Louis can tell. He’ll be asleep within thirty minutes. He’s so, so warm. Louis moves closer, holds him tighter, ignores the painful pressure on his chest. One of Harry’s huge hands reaches back to smooth a bit over his side.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Bit sore. Dunno why.”

 

He can practically hear Harry frown and furrow his eyebrows. “’m sorry, babe. D’you need anything? Paracetamol? A heating pad? Or, here, am I hurting you?”

 

“Nah. You’re fine, stop fussing and let me cuddle you.”

 

“You sure? I could give you a massage, if you’d like.” That does sound nice, actually. His back twinges something fierce. He’s feeling unsettled in his skin, though, can’t shake the insistent paranoia that he’ll make Harry run away if he touches him. Nevermind that Harry hasn’t run away once in six years, even when it would’ve been logical to. A wispy hair tickles his nose, Harry’s warm palm soothing over his skin.

 

He wants hands on him, he decides. “That would be lovely, actually. Can I watch Bake-Off while you’re at it?”

 

Harry snuffs a laugh. “Of course.” He glances at the screen as Louis wakes up the computer. “Did you start without me?”

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” A knee nudges him and he rolls over, settling somewhat cautiously on his front. He tucks one of the throw pillows under his torso and sighs.

 

Harry drops a kiss to one of his shoulders. “Shirt on?”

 

Louis has to think for a second. “Um. I mean. If you want.”

 

“’s about what you want. Wanna make you feel good, help you relax.”

 

“You’re the one who’s been busy all day,” Louis points out.

 

“You’re the one who’s been poorly.” Harry’s hands settle in the middle of his back. “Shirt on or off?”

 

“Off,” Louis decides, after a moment. It’s strange, the way he’s suddenly feeling a little shy in front of Harry. He can’t even count how many times Harry’s seen him naked. It’s not as if he’s likely to up and run off because Louis has tits. He chides himself for being so weird, chalks it up to his hormones being wonky and strips his shirt off in one motion before lying back down and wriggling a bit to get comfortable.

 

Harry settles firmly on his arse and smoothes his hands up Louis’ back, light and easy. “D’you fall asleep with your binder on again?” he asks, running a thumb along one of the deep pink scores circling Louis’ arms.

 

“Maybe.” He can’t help getting defensive, even if Harry’s not been accusatory. It’s not as if he’d slept all night in it, or spent 72 hours straight with it on, or bruised his ribs. Harry digs his fingers in hard and Louis whimpers, just a bit. In a good way.

 

Harry’s got such nice hands, and he’s so good with them, finding all the spots where Louis’ body collects tension and grinding it out, leaving him loose-limbed and pliant. There’s a huge knot under his right shoulderblade, and Harry coaxes his arm around so he can access it before digging in hard with his elbow, Louis’ back arching off the sofa. He’d been scared to hurt him the first many times they’d done this, but Louis _needs_ it like this, needs it to hurt so it can feel better. He can almost see the strain evaporating out of him and into the air around them, lets out a long groan as Harry pushes and pushes and works his back like dough. He kneads at him until Louis is melting into the sofa, drooling a bit on the cushion, and Ganymede starts nosing at his dangling hand.

 

“Think someone wants fed,” he manages to get out, once Harry’s lightened up and is just stroking him, over and over again. He can feel Harry’s dick pressed into his bum, a little bit interested but not too insistent. Louis wriggles back against it a bit, anyway, just to push, just because he’s him.

 

Harry ignores him, plants a soft kiss on the back of his neck and clambers off him. Louis pouts a bit at the loss of contact. “I’ll feed her, don’t worry,” he says, and his voice is getting further away. He hears the fridge open and shut. “You hungry yet?”

 

He is, actually, and the nausea’s gone away for the most part. “Yeah,” he calls back, “you getting plates?”

 

“Figured we could just eat out of the containers, actually. Like we’re back in uni.”

 

“I love you,” Louis groans, half-into the sofa. Harry’s the best fiancé in the world.

 

“Love you too,” Harry says. “Not quite like we’re back in uni, is it? No Zayn throwing things at us for PDA.”

 

Louis wrinkles his nose. “You’d think I’d never had his dick in my mouth,” he says brightly, prodding for a reaction.

 

He gets it. “Heeeeeeey,” Harry whines, long and low. Harry’s got to know he’s got nothing to worry about—Harry’s dick is the only one he’s sucked in six years and Zayn is a bit like his weird younger brother, but Louis kind of likes Harry’s possessive streak, especially when he’s feeling a little low. Likes the reassurance that Harry wants him.

 

Reassurance is a two way street, though. “That was _one time,_ come on Hazza. Anyway. He needs to get laid, is my only point.” Zayn’s all cranky and moony and never wants to go out, except to Niall’s, to be cranky and moony there. Louis loves Niall, but he’s going to go mad if he has to watch Zayn stare at him for the rest of time.

 

Harry scrunches his brow and takes a bite of chicken. “He’s not…he’s having trouble with that, then?”

 

“I mean,” Louis starts, pursing his lips. He hadn’t really registered what was going on during his first watch. It’s European week, apparently. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said get laid. Dunno, that’s his business. I think it’s more how he glares at anyone being a happy couple within a 100 metre radius. Specifically you and I.”

 

“Mmmm,” Harry hums, mouth stuffed full.

 

“Niall’s been wanting to ask him out, you know,” Louis says casually. “He asked me whether I think Zayn would like to go to the cinema with him.”

 

Harry’s brows shoot up towards his hairline and he swallows before saying, “Niall?”

 

Harry, for being so intelligent, is sometimes very obtuse. “Ach, come on. Have you not noticed, then? He’s had a crush on him for _ages._ ”

 

A shrug. “I thought…I dunno. Didn’t notice. I thought Zayn didn’t like him?”

 

Louis lets out a bark of laughter. “Are you…you’re having me on, aren’t you?”

 

“No,” Harry pouts. “He gets all…quiet and weird.”

 

“He’s trying to be _mysterious.”_ Louis rolls his eyes. “Somewhere along the line he got the idea that that’s what hooks people. It’s proper stupid, that. Remember how much of a prick he was to Perrie when they met?”

 

“No,” Harry says. “I wasn’t there, remember? Still in uni.”

 

“Oh right.” Louis pauses. “Well, he wouldn’t talk to her for the longest time, and then she yelled at him for being rude, and well.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“Anyway, he’s convinced Niall doesn’t like him, and Niall’s half-convinced _Zayn_ doesn’t like him, and it’s all bollocks.” Louis sighs dramatically. “I told him to take him to the new Avengers film. He’ll get so excited he forgets to be all dark and brooding.”

 

“Didn’t you two already see that? Twice?”

 

“Yup,” Louis says, popping the p. “I’m brilliant.”

 

Harry pauses for a moment before he gets it. “Oh. _Oh,_ so if Niall asks—“

 

“Zayn’ll say he hasn’t and like, be forced to confront that he has _feelings_ for Niall, which he won’t admit. Dunno why I surround myself with such emotionally incompetent idiots.”

 

“Heeeeeeeeey.” Harry pouts.

 

Louis huffs and rolls his eyes. “Not you, love.”

 

Harry’s pout doesn’t budge until Louis pecks him once, twice, three times, but returns once he pulls away. “You’re a menace,” Louis grumbles, but kisses him again, ‘til they’re both giggling.

 

“Anyway,” he says, once they’re both satisfied and sleepy, “We’re taking Zayn out tomorrow night. To Niall’s. Phase one.”

 

Harry raises his eyebrows. “There are _phases?”_

 

“You don’t even know.” Louis licks him on the nose and laughs when Harry squawks. “I’ve got _plans,_ ” he whispers. “Big, big plans.”

 

Harry gives him a slow blink. “Any plans for me?” Louis feels his grin go wolfish.

 

***

 

“So,” Niall says, setting three pints down on the counter, all sweating a little and overfull, “how’s that book of yours coming?”

 

Zayn ducks his head. “Good, good. Looking at shopping it around soon,” he says, keeping his tone casual, light.

 

Niall grins at him, bright and beaming. “Steady on. You’ll be mentioning me in the dedication, yeah? Didn’t let you hang about after last call for nothing, you know.”

 

Zayn doesn’t know why Niall’s little pub is his favorite place to work on his diss, rather than, for example, the corner of his department’s office he has specifically dedicated for this task, but it is, and he’s not going to question it. Niall’s also weirdly great to bounce points he’s having difficulty with off of, sharp and detail-oriented but unfailingly kind. He makes Zayn feel really important, is the thing. Which is weird, because Niall’s actually really successful and knows everyone and Zayn’s just a customer.

 

He realizes he’s staring and shakes himself a little bit. “I know.” His gaze flicks over to Harry and Louis, practically on top of each other. Louis says something into Harry’s ear and the younger boy throws his head back laughing; if Zayn were closer he’d hear the honking snort that accompanies the movement. They’re really very cute. He’s not jealous, not at all. “Er, thank you, is what I meant.”

 

“Disgusting, aren’t they?” Niall’s tone is smiling. Zayn’s never met anyone who smiles as much as Niall, who makes _him_ want to smile as much, his big goofy grin that makes his eyes crinkle. He doesn’t understand the way Niall makes him simultaneously nervous and secure, safe. It’s _stupid._

 

Zayn takes a sip of his pint, blushing when a bit of foam sticks to his moustache. He wipes at it quickly. He should’ve shaved. Why didn’t he shave? “Absolutely revolting. Dunno how I put up with them. They’re gonna get married and I’m just going to be vomiting at the altar and they’ll never speak to me again. It’ll be horrid.”

 

Niall takes a rag off his belt and starts wiping down a glass, putting on his thoughtful face. “Think they’d have me as best man, then? If you’re, er…incapacitated.”

 

“Probably,” Zayn says, as glumly as he can manage when a smile’s pulling at his face with all its might. He makes to go back to their table, pints weighing down his hands and making them ache a bit from the stretch. “Gonna get these to them so they have something else to do with their mouths that isn’t…that.” He turns to go, a little quick, a bit of liquid sloshing out over his fingers.

 

“Hey,” Niall calls after him. “Have you seen the new Avengers film?”

 

Zayn pauses. “Not yet, no.” He has, Louis and he went last week. Twice.

 

“Brilliant. I take off early on Thursdays, d’you want to go to the Odyssey? They’ve got this sick IMAX. We could get tapas, after. Or before, if you like.”

 

Thursday might be tough, but Zayn bites his lip against his smile and nods. He tries to push down the insistent buzzing in his abdomen and picks the drinks back up.

 

“What’s got you all blushy?” asks Louis once he sets them down and slides into the booth, and he flicks him off. “Oi, careful there,” Louis says, grinning. “We’re just looking out for you. Tell Auntie Harry and Uncle Louis everything, come on.”

 

Zayn sighs. He needs less nosy friends. Cool friends. Not friends who are disgustingly in love with each other and want to meddle in his business because they don’t understand that other people don’t find their soulmates one of their first weeks of uni. “Niall wants to go to the cinema with me. On Thursday,” he mumbles, ducking his head and mucking with his nose ring.

 

Louis whoops, “Good on you! Finally!” clapping him on the back. “Thought I’d have to go old and grey watching you moon at him.”

 

Zayn groans and whines, “Shut up,” dragging out the last syllable. He can’t stop smiling, though.

 

***

 

Louis has a bitch of a hangover - even though he’d not even gotten drunk last night - and a voicemail from the surgery. He’s forgotten the pin to his inbox, though, so he can’t listen to it. He means to call back but it all gets lost in the jumble of rehearsal scheduling and his students begging him to change their marks last-minute, and he’s tired.  Everything hurts, still, even at six at night after most everyone else has left the building.

 

At seven, he eats three of the fairy cakes Sophia had brought him (“Since we weren’t here on your birthday,” she’d said) and then darts to the loo to be sick, not even on purpose—even though given the choice, he might’ve.

 

He thinks, very briefly, about calling Harry, about crying and saying, _I don’t know what’s wrong with me, please fix it,_ but Harry’s probably busy and he’d blow this all out of proportion, anyway. Louis doesn’t need him watching his eating when the pouch around his stomach just keeps growing and growing, ever since Christmas, the stubborn bit of extra weight sticking around and _growing_ and _growing_. The last thing he needs Harry’s insistent gaze on his body, worrying, wondering. The thought makes his skin crawl.

 

He washes his mouth out, splashes some water over his face, and looks at his reflection, red-rimmed eyes and wild hair and flushed cheeks. He pokes at them, feeling at his lymph nodes—a little swollen and painful, but not too bad. He turns his head this way and that, studying the cut of his cheekbones—softer, he thinks, and swallows against the dread that creeps its way up his esophagus. _It’s just your imagination,_ he scolds himself. _Stop thinking about it._

 

He marks three more term papers and then inhales another fairy cake before he knows what he’s doing. His head makes a _thunk_ against his desk, a dull throb growing behind his eyes.

 

***

 

The lack of a warm body when Harry reaches across the bed wakes him, and he feels his brow furrow, a few slow blinks clearing the sleep out of his eyes. It’s still dark, but there’s a soft glow coming from the hallway.

 

“Babe?” Harry calls, to no response. He sighs and swings his legs over the side of the bed, stretching a little and hearing a satisfying _pop_ in his lower back. The floorboards groan mightily beneath his feet, cold and knotty. He shivers—they’d left the window open just a crack to get some air moving because Louis had complained he was hot and Harry had wanted to cuddle, but it’s properly cold in their room now. Harry grabs for the throw blanket at the foot of their bed and drapes it round his shoulders. He debates for a moment before grabbing Louis’ slippers from under the bed, just in case. Louis’ feet always get cold and then he wants to warm them up between his thighs.

 

He listens at the bathroom door for just a moment before saying anything. Louis probably hears him, but some twisting fear at the base of his spine wants to listen in case he hasn’t and he’s making himself sick on purpose, if that’s why he’s been so odd, a little distant, secretive in the way that sets Harry on edge. He doesn’t hear anything, though, and the knot in his chest eases a bit, at that. He doesn’t want to go back there, to Louis wriggling out of his arms in the middle of the night and Harry not knowing what to do with the fact that he can hear little coughs and retches coming from the bathroom, to biting his lips and debating whether he should say anything about the way huge amounts of food keep disappearing from their cupboards or about the redness around Louis’ knuckles, the roughness of his voice. He doesn’t ever want to go back there, doesn’t want to see Louis have to go back there, dulled and sneaky and the opposite of his bright, open, brilliant self.

 

“Lou?” he calls, after a moment. “Babe? You okay?”

 

Louis doesn’t respond. Harry’s worried, suddenly—a million possibilities whirring through his brain, Louis passed out, Louis being too afraid to ask Harry for help, Louis having properly _hurt himself,_ Louis cold and lifeless—and he shoves the door open, thanking God and a litany of saints that it’s not locked.

 

Louis isn’t passed out or lying in a pool of his own blood, but he _is_ standing in front of the mirror in just his briefs and pinching and pulling at the skin around his middle, and it breaks Harry’s heart to see him grip his own flesh so cruelly, the anger and hurt in his eyes as he kneads at the skin like he’s trying to get it to go away by sheer force of will. He startles a bit at the door, eyes flicking to Harry quickly and flashing with guilt before he ducks to pick his shirt up off the floor and scrambles to get it on.

 

Harry approaches slowly, almost like Louis’ a frightened animal he doesn’t want to spook. “Can I touch you?” he says, and tries not to look hurt when Louis doesn’t respond immediately, twisting his mouth and looking at his feet.

 

“Yes,” he decides after a minute. “Sorry.”

 

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Harry says into his neck, arms snaking around to wrap around Louis’ shoulders, safe and easy. He breathes in his smell (not a hint of sick, thank God) and kisses softly at where his neck meets his shoulder, the tension vibrating under the skin there. He gets the most awful knots in his deltoids, the muscle becoming almost a solid lump. “You feeling okay? Bed’s cold without you.”

 

He’s talking around it, waiting for Louis to say what’s bugging him himself, having learned the hard way that Louis doesn’t appreciate pushiness about this kind of thing. It’s not that Harry hasn’t noticed that Louis’ body is a little softer and rounder in some places lately, or that Louis has been more and more reluctant to let Harry see that, but Louis definitely doesn’t need to know that he notices. That won’t help a bit.

 

“’m fine,” Louis says, voice soft. Harry feels the shift of his muscles against his chest, Louis reaching down to pull his shirt further over his middle. “Just…” He pauses for a long minute. Harry waits patiently, doesn’t push, pressing a few more kisses into the junction of his shoulder. “Not feeling great, lately. Dunno what’s wrong with me, sorry love.”

 

“Nothing’s wrong with you,” Harry says automatically, because it’s true. Louis always takes _different_ as _wrong_ and that’s not how Harry sees it at all, but this is a stalemate they’re familiar with after six years. He’s not going to get Louis to understand that just because he’s noticed a change doesn’t mean he’s thinking anything bad about it.

 

Louis snuffs out a laugh. “Not what I meant. Well. A little bit what I meant. I dunno. I just…don’t feel well. Sick all the time, weird about food. Feels like I’m a balloon.” Harry’s a little relieved at the _admission_ that he feels weird about food even though Louis’ been very honest lately.

 

“D’you hear back from the doctors?” Harry asks, pressing a kiss to his ear.

 

Louis sighs. “Yeah. Rung them yesterday. They want me to come back in, draw some more blood. Probably hormonal.” His tone is light enough.

 

Harry nods. “Makes sense.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“How long’s the wait for that new endo?”

 

Another sigh. “Still three months. You’ll have to put up with me ‘til then, I’m afraid..”

 

“Not putting up with you. Love you.”

 

“I know,” Louis says after a moment.

 

“Hey,” Harry whines. “Don’t pull a Han Solo on me. ‘s not nice.”

 

He gets a laugh out of Louis at that. “I am Han Solo, Harold. Your hair’s long enough to put up in Leia braids, don’t think I’ve not noticed.” He pauses, turns his head to press a kiss to Harry’s knuckles. “I love you too. Thank you.”

 

“Nothing to thank me for, baby.” Louis cranes his neck to catch the corner of his mouth, and Harry smiles into it, the plush press of his lips. “Come back to bed?”

 

“Yeah,” Louis breathes. “Yeah.”

 

Louis pulls the duvet all the way over himself once they’re in, biting his lip for a minute before clearing his throat and looking at Harry. His eyes are shiny. He’s so beautiful, Harry feels breathless for a moment and goes to turn off the fairy lights wound ‘round their headboard (new ones, from the after Christmas sales, shaped like little stars). “Can we—can I—“ He grimaces and then shakes his head. “C’mere love,” he says, holding out his arms for Harry to burrow into. Harry almost suggests he hold Louis instead, but Louis hates being coddled unless he’s _really_ distressed, and even then he gets upset at himself for wanting to be taken care of. He’s a caretaker by nature, Harry soaking up the attention and learning to give it back in ways that make Louis feel appreciated rather than infantilized. They make it work.

 

Louis presses a kiss to the top of his Harry’s head and pulls him closer until he has his nose pressed into the steady, soft thump of his pulse in his neck, and the feel of his breathing ghosting over Harry’s neck lulls him to sleep.

 

***

 

Louis hates the doctors’. He hates the awkward choice between lying down on the examination table’s weird paper surface and sitting up with his phone, hunched over and hurting his back. He hates being weighed and pissing in a cup. He doesn’t hate needles but he doesn’t like them much. He hates the smell. He hates that he’s so familiar with them. If Harry didn’t pester him he might not go, ever.

 

They’d said something on the phone about wanting to run a few more tests, and he hasn’t been able to quiet the prick of anxiety in his belly since. There’s so many things that could be wrong—he’s really got to work on getting that hysterectomy, soon, now that it’s coming up on five years he’s been on hormones (well. On and off, which is how he justifies putting the surgery off) and insistent thoughts about cancer and all kinds of other awfulness creep around the edges of his mind. He really hates waiting. He’s not good at it.

 

Thankfully he’s here on a Thursday afternoon—he’d been able to find a supply teacher on surprisingly short notice, actually—and the door opens just as he runs out of lives on Candy Crush.

 

“Hi, Louis,” says Dr. Holmes. She’s a youngish woman, born and raised in Sydenham, and she’s really lovely. Louis likes her. They’re both United fans. She sort of reminds him of Liam, in an odd way, all big eyes and enthusiasm and seriousness.

 

“Right,” she says, “Are you alright, there? D’you need water, or anything?”

 

“Nah, I’m fine. How’re you?”

 

“Stickin’ out,” she says, and he laughs. “There, got a smile from you. Now, this might be a bit overwhelming, and I want you to remember that I’m here for you as a source of support, for whatever you need.”

 

He swallows.

 

***

 

Thirty minutes later, he stumbles out of the surgery, blinking hard against the light from the grey sky. “Right,” he says. “You’re going to be fine,” and then promptly empties his stomach onto the curb.

 

***

 

Harry’s almost through inputting grades from his freshman rhetoric class when his phone starts buzzing, the screen lighting up with a picture of Niall holding this _massive_ fucking cabbage he’d grown last year and Louis had insisted he call up Guinness to check if it was a record-setter. It hadn’t been, but Niall had been proud as anything. He’s doing pumpkins this year, apparently.

 

“Hiya Nialler,” Harry says. “What can I do you for?”

 

“Hey, Haz,” Niall’s voice sounds a bit far away. “Listen, I hate to do this, and you know I’d normally get him home myself, but the feckless idiot I hired last week is out sick and I’m stuck here ‘til Bressie comes in. Come get your boyfriend, he’s out of it.”

 

Worry curls cold in Harry’s abdomen. “Out of it?” Out of it can mean a lot of things.

 

“Absolutely smashed,” Niall says. “And before you yell at me, he was like this when he got here, I haven’t served him a drop, called you as soon as I finished mopping up where he spewed all over my floor.”

 

“Sorry,” Harry says.

 

“Not your fault, mate.” Niall says, talking quickly in a way that betrays the fact that he really is worried. “Unless it was, but I don’t think so. He keeps babbling about how sorry he is for summat. Dunno.”

 

“Thanks, Niall.” Harry’s properly worried, now, his palms sweating a bit. “I’ll be right there.”

 

Niall hadn’t been kidding—when he gets there, Louis is halfway to passed out with his front on their usual booth near the back. Niall jerks a thumb toward him and calls over his shoulder, “Lou, your boyfriend’s here!”

 

Louis yells something that sounds like “fiancé,” but it’s garbled by his face being pressed into the dark wood. Harry crosses the room in several long strides and drops to his knees in front of him to try and get a look at his face, not caring about the stickiness of the floor. It’s not that bad, anyway. Niall runs a clean operation.

 

One of Harry’s hands brushes Louis’ hair back from his face, and Louis’ eyes blink a little owlishly, his mouth curving into a smile. “Hi,” he says softly. “Hi.”

 

“Hi there, party boy,” Harry says, smoothing over Louis’ hair. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are glassy and a little red, like he’s been crying. He’s _really_ out of it, Niall was right. Not that Harry doesn’t trust his judgment. “You ready to come home?”

 

“Noooooo,” Louis says. “Buy me a drink, Niall’s mean ‘n won’t. I don’t like him, he can’t come to my—“ Louis hiccups. “—m’birthday party.” Louis starts to giggle, and then, all of a sudden, in one horrible moment, his face crumples, and then he’s slumping against Harry, falling into his arms and _sobbing,_ his whole body wracked with it, like he’s lost control over his limbs. It’s terrifying.

 

Harry pets helplessly at his back, murmuring and soothing and his heart breaking. He doesn’t know what he’s saying; most likely meaningless little platitudes, stroking at his hair and wiping at his cheeks, his own voice starting to choke up.

 

He’s vaguely aware that people are looking at them, but he doesn’t care, not when Louis’ this upset and he doesn’t know _why,_ doesn’t know how to fix it. Louis is trembling and his snot’s soaking through Harry’s shirt, big, hiccupping cries that just don’t let up. Harry’s only seen him cry like this once or twice and every time he’s felt helpless to do anything but hold onto him as best he can until it stops. Harry’s the crier of the two of them. He’s out of his depth.

 

Eventually, it does. Louis seems to dry up, or tire himself out, and the force of his shaking starts to abate, sniffles replacing the wails. His fingers are dug deep into Harry’s back, and Harry only becomes aware of it once they’re gone, little points of sharp ache that he might well feel tomorrow. Maybe they’ll leave marks.

 

He presses a kiss into Louis’ damp, warm temple, his sweaty hair tickling his nose, scent sharp with booze but still Louis. “Let’s get you home,” he murmurs. “Come on, baby.”

 

He ends up carrying Louis with his arms wrapped around his neck and legs clinging to his waist, mouthing a “thank you” at Niall on his way out the door. He gets him in the car and buckled and tries very hard not to speed home.

 

Louis is asleep by the time they get there. He somehow stays asleep as Harry carries him up the stairs and into their flat, takes off his shoes, and puts him in their bed, pulling the duvet over him. Ganymede meows and leaps up on the bed, then begins kneading hard at Louis’ right thigh.  His hand waves about for a second before reaching down to scratch at her head. She purrs and stretches before settling with her huge brown and black body curled right up against Louis.

 

Harry spends a few minutes at the foot of the bed, watching them, before he pulls off his own boots and lies down next to Louis. He expects to have trouble sleeping, but he’s out almost before he pulls the sheet over himself.

 

***

 

 _I had fun last night (:_ Zayn types. _Maybe we could get lunch sometime? My treat aha xx_

 

He sighs, running a hand through his hair before flopping into his desk chair and letting out a plaintive groan. He’s so bad at this. Put him in the ground. He can’t focus on his diss, so he’d gone over to the comic shop at lunch, but every other thought had been _Niall would like this! Buy this for Niall!_ and he’d just left with an issue of Aquaman he’s pretty sure he already owned.

 

He deletes the text and stares at Niall’s contact. He’d spent the better part of an hour trying to figure out what emoji to put next to his name (appropriately describing the level of flustered and important Niall makes him feel, but with enough plausible deniability that he wouldn’t need to jump off a bridge were Niall to see it.) Eventually he’d settled on the four leaf clover. He can chalk that up to Niall being literally the most Irish person he’s ever met in three years of living in actual Ireland. Easy. It’s totally not about how _special_ and _lucky_ he feels every time Niall looks at him. That would be dumb.

 

Zayn sighs again like that might magically make him not an incompetent idiot. He’s not even sure Niall _likes_ him. It might’ve been a totally platonic bro hang-out. Sure, Niall had insisted on paying for the tickets and buying Zayn three different types of sweets despite his protests that he was fine, and they had hugged for rather a long time before Zayn had gone inside his flat, but those are all totally platonic mate things. Niall’s just being a nice person. Niall’s so nice. Zayn likes him so much.

 

Maybe if he wishes really hard the ground will actually swallow him. He decides to test it out. The mountain of emails he has to answer can wait, and also, he doesn’t have to answer them if he’s melted into the Earth’s crust.

 

Just as he’s trying to remember if he’s heard that origin story somewhere or whether it’s an option for the comic collecting dust under his bed, Niall texts him.

 

 _Thanks for last night!! Hope you’ll let me take you out again._ He’d finished it off with a heart emoji. Zayn feels his face crinkling up into his big, dorky smile, and calmly takes his glasses off before clapping both hands over his face and screaming.

 

***

 

A little after three, a bit before both of their afternoon lectures, Harry knocks on Zayn’s door and lets himself in at the grunt he gets in reply. “Bad time?” he asks. Zayn’s got his head down on his crossed arms and something in a minor key playing on his computer—is that—

 

“Zayn,” Harry says, “Are you listening to Adele?”

 

“Shut up,” Zayn mumbles, going to switch it off. “It’s cathartic.”

 

Harry makes a little noise of sympathy. “Did your date not go well, then?”

 

“It wasn’t a _date,”_ Zayn bites out, but he’s trying not to smile. “He’s just nice.”

 

“Okay.” Harry leaves it there. Louis would needle Zayn until he spilled, but Harry imagines that’s the product of so many years attached at the hip and also their weird mind-meld thing. Or maybe just being a big brother. He’s not going to pretend to understand. “You heard from Louis today?”

 

Zayn’s eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline. “Have you not?”

 

Harry waves a hand. “Nah, don’t be daft, I saw him before I left this morning, called the school for him, but. He was sort of upset last night and I wondered if he’d said anything to you.”

 

“Nah,” Zayn says, and gets his phone out, tapping something with his thumbs. His brow furrows a bit, the tilt of his head making his nose ring catch the light and twinkle. “You okay, babes?”

 

Harry shrugs, and knows he looks sort of pathetic. He’s kind of counting on Zayn to come give him a cuddle and tell him everything’s going to be okay. And maybe help him sort out what’s wrong with Louis, but that looks as though it’s going to be a bust.

 

Zayn’s phone buzzes and flashes. His expression is inscrutable as he reads something and then taps out a response before locking it and setting it back on his desk.

 

“Louis?” Harry asks quietly.

 

“Yeah.” A twinge of hurt registers in Harry’s throat. Louis hasn’t answered any of his texts today beyond replying _ok_ to Harry’s message saying he would be home a bit late.

 

“What’s he say?”

 

“Nothing really,” Zayn says, shrugging. “Talk to him, mate.”

 

Harry feels the thickness of tears in his own voice. “He won’t talk to me,” he says, his voice rising just a bit at the end.

 

“Hey, hey.” Zayn gets up and puts a soothing hand on his shoulder. “You’re alright. I just meant have a chat when you get home, it’s alright. You know him, he’s probably embarrassed for being upset and moping about ‘cos he misses you.”

 

Maybe. Harry sniffles. “I just wish he’d talk to me.”

 

“He will, babes. Just give him time, yeah? It’s not a big thing, I’m sure.  You just haven’t had a chance to talk it through.” He’s right—Louis can be cagey sometimes, but he’s honest about his feelings, lately, about when he’s upset or angry or anxious. They just need to talk.

 

“Thanks.” Harry wipes at his cheeks, grinds a knuckle into his eye socket. He’s sure he looks like a mess. He’s got to teach in a quarter of an hour and he’s wearing a dirty, crumpled shirt and the wrong trousers, having picked out his clothes in the dark, not wanting to wake Louis. It wouldn’t matter except to Harry’s vanity, except that he’s reasonably sure his consistently high marks on his evaluations are not unrelated to him being young and good-looking and fashionable. He feels a little objectified, at times, but he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth if it’ll get him a decent job in the future. “I’m going to. Go. Teach. Er, lecture. Can you—will you tell him I love him?”

 

“Do it yourself,” Zayn says, but it’s not mean.

 

Harry wraps him in a tight hug, clinging to Zayn and breathing in his light, clean scent. “Love you, Zee.” Zayn’s a good hugger, bony as he is.

 

“Love you too, now get out of here. You’re interrupting my wallowing,” he says, slapping Harry lightly on the shoulder, which makes him smile. Harry schools himself into his teacher persona on the walk halfway across campus—collected, goofy, flamboyant, sensitive. He’s got this.

 

***

 

Louis’ asleep on the sofa when Harry gets home, bundled up under his blue spotted blanket and—Harry’s pretty sure—wearing his Harry <3 Louis shirt. A smile tugs at the corners of Harry’s mouth. He’d gotten Louis the t-shirt off some crap website when Louis had first moved and Harry was still in England, and the material was too thick to really be comfortable, the design awkwardly ironed on, but Louis had pronounced it his very favorite article of clothing, and by the time Harry had seen it next, close to six months later, it was soft and worn and the ink was cracked all over. Most importantly, it had smelled like Louis.

 

After some gentle probing, Louis had admitted he’d been wearing it underneath his work clothes more often than not, even though they both knew Louis tended to get too hot with all the layers he wore and that adding one more couldn’t have helped. Harry had been warmed by the knowledge then, just as he is now, seeing Louis all sleepy and soft, covered in a declaration of Harry’s love. (Two, actually—the blankets had been an anniversary present—plus all the tattoos. They’re in love, whatever.)

 

He looks peaceful, and Harry sets down his bag gently, careful not to wake him. He can’t resist crossing the room to kiss his forehead, though, and Louis lets out a little noise of contentment when he does, brow scrunching for a moment before smoothing out, his eyelashes fanned against the delicate, purpled skin under his eyes—darker than it ought to be, maybe.

 

Ganymede, naturally, chooses that moment to begin yowling, evidently dissatisfied with her dinner not being the first thing on that evening’s agenda.

 

“Alright, alright,” Harry stage-whispers to her. “I hear you. Go cuddle with your dad, will you?” She rubs against his legs on her way over to the settee. Not for the first time, Harry wonders if she’s not actually a person wearing a cat suit. It’s uncanny.

 

***

 

As much as he would love to use every last bit of the sick leave he’s saved up in the next two weeks or so, Louis has enough rationality left to know he needs to keep some handy for when he—well. When he solves this issue. It’s just a matter of coordinating it all, and so he devotes most of Friday morning to doing exactly that, condensing the problem to some saved phone numbers and a text to Liam asking if he can visit soon.

 

Once that’s done, he gets quite spectacularly drunk in the middle of the day with Ganymede watching him reproachfully from the windowsill. He flips her off half-heartedly. He doesn’t need her judgment.

 

Harry teaches two classes on Fridays, one of them a four-hour seminar from 4 until 8. Louis should be sobered up by then, have enough time to get the evidence of his mini-bender out of sight. He’s already supposedly ill. It’ll be fine.

 

Except that even though he’d had a _plan,_ and he’s following the plan, and therefore this should feel manageable, shouldn’t even feel like anything, he can’t stop fucking crying. _Hormones_ , he thinks, _must be_. Looking down at the droopy pouch of his stomach, he’s overcome with the sudden urge to get something very large and heavy from the kitchen—the thing Harry uses to thin out steaks, perhaps—and pummel himself with it until he sees blood. It’s very macabre, and he’s a little taken aback.

 

That line of thought leads into other gruesome ones and it’s not long before he’s hauling himself to the loo to kneel on the cold, hard tile and retch into the toilet, alcohol rolling and protesting in his empty stomach. The taste is rich and sharp on his tongue and he keeps bruising his knees trying to rise up and then collapsing down when another wave of it hits.

 

It’s pathetic, is what it is. When he finally manages to stop heaving, shaking like a leaf and stomach still contracting every odd second, he crawls back into bed and throws his phone across the room so he won’t call his mum and beg her to fix this for him. He’s fucking—he can hardly even say it to himself, that he’s fucking _pregnant,_ the shape of the syllables so repulsive in his mouth, ugly and guttural. He’s gone and got himself knocked up and it’s his own stupid fault and now he has to figure out a way to look like he’s holding it together so no one will ask, because he might fall apart if they do. But he’s going to manage.

 

***

 

It takes Louis the full weekend to pull himself out of the dramatic tizz he’s worked himself into. He’d avoided Harry’s questions about Thursday by making up some story about his dad reaching out to him—it made him wince, to lie so blatantly like that—and had acted as normal as possible around the house, going out to run errands when he couldn’t keep it up.  

 

By Monday, he’s resolved to manage by throwing himself fully into work. Rehearsals for _As You Like It_ begin this week, not a moment too soon, and he’s fine, really, he is. Tip-top. Absolutely cracking. Maybe he makes a bit too much of a show of being fine, but he resolutely does not notice the sidelong looks Harry’s giving him or the way the head of his department furrows her brow and puts a hand on his shoulder, says, _alright there, Mr. Tomlinson?_ He’s fine. Everything’s under control. He’s handling it.

 

He’s got most of the cast lined up, and he’s feeling good about all of them. Olivia’s going to make a great Rosalind, and Jacqueline’s been doing well reading for Celia, if a bit nervous and soft-spoken. He’s having trouble, still, with the boys; naturally, as he’s gotten used to, the vast majority of those to audition had been girls and he just doesn’t have an Orlando among them. He sighs and takes off his glasses. The morning sickness—he shudders calling it that, but at least he has an _explanation_ now—has been making itself known more and more, and he’d nearly had to dart out of his Year 10 Irish Literature class twice today. He’s hyper-aware of the waistband of his trousers digging into the ever-growing softness around his middle, the tenderness of his breasts under two sports bras (and hadn’t that been the cherry on top of this nightmare of a long weekend, that he’d ripped his favorite binder trying to get it on), insistent and heavy.

 

He’s not thinking about any of it, naturally, not a bit. If he feels frustrated tears pricking at his eyes it’s just because he doesn’t have an Orlando. He’s considering begging Harry to come in and do his whole “Shakespeare is Cool” bit for his classes, but that really only tends to get more girls to audition, anyway. It’s not that he wouldn’t love to cast a girl, he’s just entirely sure his superiors won’t go for it, no matter how politely-and-in-no-way-referencing-himself he does his “Shakespeare is a gender playground” bit.

 

He glances at the clock—he’s got to be in the auditorium in twenty minutes for a read-through, and if they’re feeling good, which they have been (bless Clementine, really, best stage manager he could ever ask for, he’s no idea what he’s going to do next year) they’ll start on blocking for Act I Scene i.

 

His phone buzzes him out of his entirely-Shakespeare-related despair. _U want to do drinks after work?_ says Zayn. Absolutely he does. He replies as much, and he’s getting ready to gather up his things when there’s a timid knock at his door.

 

“Come in,” he calls, “It’s open.” He replaces his glasses and looks up. “Oh, hi Olivia. What can I do for you, love?” He winces. He really doesn’t mean to be so…patronizing.

 

“Do you have a minute?” She’s rocking back and forth on her heels, hands clasped in front of her with her jumper pulled over them. She won’t meet his eyes, either, and he feels himself straightening up and pushing his own insistent anxiety down to focus on her.

 

“Of course, of course. Want me to put the kettle on?” He likes to think he’s settled well into his Young Approachable Teacher role, prides himself on it a bit, actually. It’s what he’d gone into this for, high-minded as anything even as he was overwhelmed the first time a student actually came to him with a problem. He’s gotten better. The kettle isn’t a trick really as much as it’s just what he naturally does, big brother instincts guiding him for the most part.

 

“No thanks,” she squeaks, still not making eye contact. “I actually wanted to talk to you, erm, about the play, if it’s not too much trouble?”

 

“No trouble at all,” he says kindly. “Want to sit? Or we can talk and walk, if you’d like.” Options are good. Be flexible.

 

She coughs. “Here’s good. Actually. Erm, I was reading through the script a bit, and I hadn’t quite, er, realized, like…do I actually have to like, dress up as a boy?”

 

 _Oh_. Louis swallows. He’s not sure what direction this conversation is headed, and he’s got to be careful with his reactions, here. “Well,” he starts, “The nice thing about Shakespeare is that it’s really what you make of it. You can do anything with it, really, they’re very adaptable texts. So, really, it’s whatever we decide on, whatever you’re comfortable with.” He keeps his tone light and conversational, hopefully reassuring without being probing.

 

She nods but doesn’t respond. He decides to probe a _little_ bit, just because he’s had her for two years and he feels a certain degree of confidence in their relationship. “Are you worried about it? I promise people won’t laugh, we won’t make it ridiculous or anything. You don’t even really have to change your costuming much, it’s all about how everyone else on stage reacts to you, really. You’re not trying to fool the audience.” He winces at his own word choice. _Fooling people, that’s what you’re doing—you can’t just not say anything._ He shakes his head. Not the time to relive that particular memory.

 

“Em,” she says, “It’s not that, really. Or. Sort of. I was more…I was just like. Nevermind, it’s stupid.”

 

He frowns a bit. “I’m sure it’s not. And anyway, you’ve no idea the kind of stupid things I’ve worried about. This is a no-judgment zone,” he finishes, lamely waving a hand around at his rather vibrantly decorated classroom with a very large David Beckham cardboard cutout that he decorates seasonally. He needs to take the tinsel off, actually, now that he thinks of it.

She cracks a grin at that. “Thanks, Mr. Tomlinson. I was more, like—can I ask you a personal question?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Have you ever, like…I know you did a lot of acting, when you were younger, and like. Did you ever have to, like, crossdress?”

 

He’s got an idea where this might be going, but he doesn’t want to push. “Sure, yeah. I’ve done it all. Pretty shameless.”

 

She chews on her lip. “Did you ever—like, how did that feel? Or, like, sorry, this is too personal, I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t apologize, love,” he says, careful. “It’s alright. Go ahead.”

 

“Did you ever…” she fiddles with the hem of her jumper. “Did it ever, like, feel really…like…You know what, nevermind,” she says hastily. “There’s rehearsal.”

 

“Are you sure? I can postpone it a few minutes, it’s no trouble.”

 

She still won’t meet his eyes. He’s learned, over the years, not to push too hard—the last thing a teenager having any kind of crisis needs is to be treated like a child who can’t decide things for themselves. “No thank you. Thanks for…listening.”

 

He gives her a small smile that he hopes registers as comforting and approachable. “Not a problem. Let’s be off, then, shall we?”

 

***

 

The tennis ball in Zayn’s hand has seen better days. Saliva’s breaking down the fibers into a spitty, stringy mess, the rubber splitting a bit in some places. Lola loves it anyway. He ought to get one of those—those things where you don’t have to touch the disgusting ball, what are those called?

 

He tosses the ball again and Lola bounds after it, her strange bunny-hop making him giggle. She’s had both her knees replaced. Cyborg dog. He’ll have to work her into his comic. Someday. If he ever gets around to actually working on the comic in any concerted way. After he finishes his diss, he will, he reasons. He’ll do it then.

 

They make their way slowly through the meadows and towards the path, Zayn throwing the ball a bit farther each time and plodding through the wet grass, the sky a bright and almost shiny grey. He whistles to Lola, who sprints back towards him and comes quite close to bowling him over as she crashes into his legs and leaps up a bit to nose at his abdomen.

 

“No treats,” he says, holding up his empty hands. “Sorry, girl.” She sits and waits, tilting her head a bit. “Good girl,” he says. “Alright, alright.” She chews happily on the bit of jerky he gives her and he pats her head. “Good girl. Y’wanna go for a swim?” She barks. “Thought maybe. C’mon.”

 

She splashes and darts after bits of wood and rubbish in the river—she’s a good swimmer, thankfully, because Zayn would be well and truly fucked if he jumped into the Lagan considering he _can’t_ swim—whilst he sits on a damp bench with the legal pad from his backpack and an old red felt-tip.

 

He flicks his hair out of his eyes and starts doodling: little sketches of Lola; the reeds by the water; characters from his comic;  a little smiley little blond spikey thing with…fire, yeah. Some kind of fire manipulation, but in a cool way. Sun? He’s very aware it’s Niall, has enough sense to feel stupid about doing it, but he _likes_ the way it’s starting to look, is starting to envision how this yet-unnamed boy might fit into the overall narrative, might be thematically important.

 

Lola gets bored after a while and bounds up toward him to place two huge, wet paws on his thighs and lick his face. He wrinkles his nose a bit and then laughs.  She uses the opportunity to lick into his mouth, and he laughs harder.

 

“That’s disgusting,” he scolds her. “Who knows where your mouth has been. I know you ate horse shite last week, I saw you.” He doesn’t put any sternness into it, though, so she just keeps wagging and licking, big and wet and dirty and sweet. She’s gotten rank water and mud on his jeans and on the pad he’d been drawing on. Oh well.

 

“I think I really like him,” he tells her, because she’s a good listener. “I dunno what to do with that. Like, I dunno if he likes me that way. He hasn’t, like, said, or tried to start anything, or whatever. I dunno. I dunno what I want, either, if I’m honest. It’s the pits.” She licks his face again and then starts snuffling at his pocket. He gives her another bit of jerky. “Greedy bugger,” he says. “Miss Julie’s gonna have my skin for feeding you so much.” He gives her a kiss on the nose and stands up. His shoes squelch in the mud. He ought to have worn wellies; it’s January, after all.

 

They make their way back into town slowly, Lola a little tired and resentful about being on a lead. She stops dead when they pass a can of beer with half its contents on the pavement, and Zayn has to coax her forward with the remains of the jerky he’d brought. He towels her off outside her house and knocks on the door. “Is your mum home?” he asks Lola, who just wags her tail.

 

After a minute, Julie answers the door, looking a bit drawn but with a large smile. “Thank you, pet,” she says, kissing Zayn on both cheeks. “And hello to you too, love.” Lola barks and wags with her whole body, licking at her mum’s hand. “Would you like to come in for a bit? I’ve just put the kettle on.”

 

“No, thank you,” Zayn replies. “Marking calls, I’m so sorry. Same time tomorrow?”

 

She smiles. “If you wouldn’t mind, that would be fab. Thanks, love.”

 

“My pleasure. She’s a dear.” He lowers his gaze to Lola and grins at her. “Yes you are, aren’t you,” he coos. “The best girl in the whole world.”

 

“I can’t thank you enough, Zayn,” Julie tells him earnestly. “This is such a huge help.”

 

“No worries at all. You two take care, alright?”

 

“You too.”

 

Zayn opens the door to his ground-floor flat and rummages through the post. Nothing particularly interesting. He finds a pack of shrimp spring rolls in the freezer and turns the Aga on with a wary look; she’s temperamental. He’s settling in with his plate and his second-year composition essays and _The IT Crowd_ queued up on Netflix when his phone buzzes.

 

 _Niall: Saw this and thought of you !!_ [ _http://journalthis.danoah.com/wp-content/uploads/3-buddha-bullodog-batman-dog-costume.jpg_ ](http://journalthis.danoah.com/wp-content/uploads/3-buddha-bullodog-batman-dog-costume.jpg)

 

A warm blush spreads across Zayn’s face and down his body towards the tips of his fingers. He chews at his lip and taps out a response.

 

_Beautiful aha!! gna get my future dog one of those (: xx_

 

Niall replies before Zayn’s set his phone down. _U mean u don’t have a dog??? Craziness. Ur like, the kind of person who needs a dog._

 

_What kind is that?_

 

_The best kind, obv :)_

 

 _?_ he sends back. He’s fishing for compliments at this point and he’s well aware.

 

_Sweet + kind + hardworking + brilliant. U kno. (:_

 

Zayn screams out loud and is glad for a moment that there’s no one else in his flat. _Thanks xx (: ur the best_

 

Niall just sends him back a heart emoji. Zayn stares at it for entirely longer than is appropriate. His spring rolls go cold.

 

***

 

Harry’s staring hard enough at Louis’ back that he’s half-afraid he’s going to burn a hole in it. He knows he’s doing what Louis (and subsequently Zayn and subsequently Niall and subsequently Harry’s sister and a whole plethora of other people) calls his “serial killer stare,” but he can’t help that he just— _looks_ intensely. Louis’ up at the bar chatting with—Greg, is it?—the new barkeep Niall’s hired. Harry can feel a muscle in his jaw twitching. Everyone is entitled to fits of irrational jealousy sometimes, he figures. Louis had gotten weird about that time Harry had ridden the mechanical bull on their trip to the States, for Christ’s sake.

 

“You alright, there?” Niall’s voice has an easy lilt to it. They’re on their second round; Louis’ up to get a third. Sipping at the last dregs of his pint, Harry gives himself a moment to think of an answer. Honesty is kind of Niall’s _thing._ He’s a great confidant, easy and open. Harry suddenly, inexplicably, feels like crying.

 

It’s not any one thing. It’s nothing he can put a name on, and he grimaces. “I’m not…I dunno.” Zayn’s in the loo—probably fixing his hair, given that Niall’s with them—and Perrie and her lot haven’t arrived yet. He glances sideways at Louis leaning over the bar. He says something that makes Greg laugh loudly enough to hear from across the room. A scowl pulls across Harry’s face without his permission.

 

“You’re lookin’ a bit green there, aren’t you?” Niall comments lightly, taking a long swig of his Guinness.

 

“No,” Harry grinds out. “I dunno.”

 

“If it helps, Greg’s straight, or so I think. Haven’t asked, mind you, but I don’t get the vibe.” It doesn’t help, not really. Harry’s not sure how to put words to _I want him to like me best_ and not sound pathetic and whiny. He wants to whine about it to Louis. Niall nudges him with an elbow, and his voice is softer. “Try me, will you?”

 

Harry sighs and shakes his head. “I dunno. I really don’t, it’s not, like, any one thing, y’know, like, I just get this weird _feeling_ sometimes, like, er, he’s…or like, we’re not together when we are. Like, distance or something. I dunno, ‘m probably just being crazy.”

 

Niall claps a hand onto Harry’s shoulder and kisses his temple. Zayn comes back then (he _has_ been fixing his hair; just because Harry doesn’t _point it out_ like Louis does doesn’t mean he doesn’t _notice_ ) and slides into the booth, quirking an eyebrow at Harry. He frowns a bit. He doesn’t like that other people notice that something’s off. It means it’s not just in his head. Then again, maybe it’s good. He doesn’t know. He needs another drink.

 

Thankfully, Louis provides, a dark, overfull pint set in front of Harry and accompanied by a quick head scratch and a “Hey, love.” Louis sits next to him with his own pint and—a shot of some kind, a double. Harry frowns. Did Greg buy it for him? Louis doesn’t like shots, normally, not unless he’s trying to get drunk. Which, Harry could get behind that, but Louis didn’t get _him_ one.

 

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

 

_Nick: Busy tonight? Aimee borrowed all the Star Wars off her coworker. You can bring Louis if you’d like._

 

Harry takes his time tapping out: _Sorry, we can’t. Out for drinks with Zayn and Niall etc._ Then, he deletes it, letter by letter, and picks out a thumbs up emoji instead.

 

Nick sends back a _100_ and a lady dancing. _Louis?_ he asks.

 

 _No,_ Harry sends. _He’s got marking to do._ He adds the little smiling poo at the end.

 

He gets five confettis in response. Louis nudges him in the side with his elbow. “Who’s got you smiling so big, then?” He’s slurring his words a little already.

 

Harry bites his lip. Louis is weird about Nick, even though Harry _knows_ they actually get along quite well. “Nick’s wanting to do a Star Wars night.”

 

“Oh.” Louis’ face is perfectly neutral. Harry doesn’t know how to get a read on him.

 

“You’re invited, if you want.”

 

“No, no, that’s okay.” Louis’ talking fast and messing with his fringe. “You go on, then. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

 

It’s what Harry was hoping for—why does he want to be away from Louis all of a sudden?—but it feels odd, fake. Louis loves Star Wars. Still, Harry’s not about to argue with him; Louis _hates_ when people don’t take him at his word.

 

“All right,” Harry says slowly, and kisses Louis on the cheek. “Tell Pezza hi from me, yeah?”

 

“Will do.”

 

A pause. “Love you.”

 

“Love you too.” Louis takes another gulp of his pint, and Harry watches the bob of his throat. Tears start to prick in the back of his eyes again. He feels terribly off-balance as he makes his way out the door and relishes the burn of his first deep lungful of cold air .

 

***

 

“What’s the matter with you, then?” Nick asks. Harry’s only been over for five minutes, and he’s on Nick’s sofa with a big fluffy blanket around his shoulders. He knows he looks pathetic, like he wants someone to ask him what’s wrong and baby him. A very specific someone, but Nick’s quite good at it, when the mood strikes him. He’s always felt very _responsible_ for Harry, he says.

 

“Dunno,” Harry says. “Just feeling off.” He shrugs. It probably looks very sad. Louis would sigh and hug him, at this point, squeezing and tickling until Harry started laughing and coughed up what was wrong or else forgot about it entirely. Sometimes both.

 

Nick, though, studies him carefully for a long moment. “Alright then,” he says. “Which one d’you want to start with?”

 

“Four,” Harry answers automatically. “Four five one two three six. Best way to watch ‘em.” Louis is very insistent about this. Harry doesn’t like Star Wars _that_ much, himself, but Louis’ enthusiasm is infectious. He does a great Han impression, and goads Harry into doing his Chewbacca roar, and makes fun of C-3PO (who Harry kind of likes, or at least thinks deserves some respect) and has had Harry dress up as Leia for Halloween three times to date. Plus that one time not on Halloween.

 

“Christ,” Nick says, “Alright then. Dunno how many I’ll get through, though. D’you want popcorn?” He waves toward the kitchen. “I have, like. Uh. I mean, I think there’s popcorn. There’s definitely crisps. Somewhere. Possibly Wotsits.”

 

“Nah,” Harry says, toying with the hem of the blanket. “’m alright.”

 

Nick lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Alright. C’mere, you.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“May as well have a sign around your neck that says ‘I’m very sad and I want cuddles.’ Only in like, a longer, weirder way. It’d take half a minute just to read.” Nick wraps him up in his long arms and Harry practically melts into it. He’s lankier and bonier than Louis but he’s so good, so familiar. Harry makes a kind of contented murmur.

 

They get through _A New Hope_ alright. Harry finds himself missing Louis’ color commentary, and writes a total of six texts saying so that he deletes before sending. If Nick notices, he doesn’t say anything, just keeps up a steady stream of chatter, making Harry laugh despite his weird, sad mood. Nick’s a good mate. A _great_ mate, actually. Harry tells him as much, and Nick pats his head.

 

He’s alright, really, until Han’s about to be frozen in carbonite. Chewbacca’s roaring with grief and all of a sudden, Harry’s crying, screwing his face up and whimpering a little. The actual tears only last maybe twenty seconds but they leave him hot-faced and ashamed, sniffling into Nick’s neck. Everything just _hurts._ There’s the vague sensation of murmured comfort vibrating against his skin, Nick’s hand stroking through his hair.

 

“Hey,” Nick says, gentle as anything. “Can we talk about it?”

 

Harry sniffs. He’s gotten snot all over Nick’s collar. “Dunno what there is to talk about, really.” Nick looks like he’s about to interject, and Harry holds a hand up. “No, I mean—okay, obviously I’m like, upset, but it’s stupid, and nothing. I just…I dunno, I feel like Louis doesn’t like me.” It’s the best way he can think to say it, even if it’s not _exactly_ how it feels.

 

Nick, to his credit, tries not to roll his eyes and almost manages it. Matter-of-factly, he says, “Louis loves you. I know ‘cause he turns into this weird hissing cat every time I touch you. Keep half expecting him to wee on you to mark his territory, actually.”

 

Harry makes an odd choking noise somewhere between a laugh and another whimper.

 

“Oh shit, are you into that, then? That’s all right, I dated this chap with a foot fetish once—“

 

Harry shakes his head vigorously. “No. _No,_ God, thanks for that image _._ Just. I dunno.” He shrugs again. “He’s been weird and I can’t tell if I’m just imagining it ‘cos I’m stressed, or whatever, but like. It’s weird,” he finishes lamely.

 

“Weird how?”

 

“Like.” Harry’s struggling for the words. “He’s like, all chatty and stuff, more than normal, sort of? It’s weird. He’s like…you know how he gets where he’s all sharp and a little bit mean, like, not _mean-_ mean, but just a bit?” Nick nods. That’s what Louis’ like with Nick, after all. “It’s like that, and then the other half of the time it’s like…he’s all quiet, and distant and weird. I dunno. I’m probably just projecting or whatever.” He feels like crying some more and also like going to sleep. His head hurts. Nick presses a kiss to his temple.

 

“Sounds quite shit,” he says. “Have you talked to him about it?”

 

“No.” Harry squirms. It’s been a major sore spot—or, well, _challenge—_ in their relationship, Harry’s desire not to rock the boat clashing with Louis’ usually straightforward approach to conflict, his instinct to hash it out right there and then and say things he doesn’t really mean in the heat of the moment. Harry doesn’t say anything until he’s bottled up so much shit that he can’t untangle any of it. He’s trying, he really is, but he wants to just be imagining this. “I haven’t, like. It might be nothing.”

 

“Fair enough.” Nick sounds considering, careful. “It could also be something, though. Better safe than sorry, no? Honesty is the best policy, and all that.” He pauses. “Is my cliché advice helping?”

 

Harry huffs. “A little.”

 

“I’ll get you a motivational poster, then. One of them ones with the cat hanging from the washing line. _Hang in there.”_

 

“I’ll put it in my not-office.”

 

“Lovely. Shall we put the next film in? Or would you like to talk some more?”

 

Harry tilts his head for a moment before deciding. “Film.”

 

He falls asleep ten minutes into _Return of the Jedi_ and wakes up in the middle of the night with an extra blanket covering him and his phone plugged in next to him. Louis hasn’t texted, and he has time to feel his stomach sink a little before he falls back to sleep.

 

***

 

“What’s up with him?” Perrie asks Zayn, when Louis’ gone to the loo. “He’s being all…” She purses her lips, looking thoughtful. “Dunno the word for it, actually.”

 

Zayn shrugs. The pub is starting to get a bit hazy, and he can’t stop staring at Niall’s huge smile and cute teeth. Niall has _really_ cute teeth. Where did that thought come from? _Louis_ is what he’s thinking about. Right. “I dunno. He won’t say.”

 

“You’ve asked, then?”

 

He nods. He has, more or less. He’s asked in the way where Louis won’t tear his head off for trying to _psychoanalyze me, Zayn, bugger off._ “You know what he’s like. He’ll talk when he’s ready. Meantime just got to keep an eye on him. Try not to be a hen.” He gives her a pointed look.

 

“Hey,” Perrie says.

 

“Well.” He’s not wrong.

 

She grimaces. “Alright. I’m a bit of a hen sometimes. How’s you, then?”

 

“Alright.” Niall’s chest hair is peeking out of his henley. Zayn’s not actually much of the chest hair type, but he likes Niall’s. It’s nice. Everything about Niall is nice. He’s so nice.

 

It’s a good job Niall can’t hear him mumbling any of this against Perrie’s cheek. He would be mortified. He’d have to emigrate to Australia.

 

She pats his head. “Don’t do that, I’d miss you terribly. Have you asked him out, then?”

 

Zayn’s suddenly very, very aware that Niall is just on the other side of the booth. Occupied showing Jesy a card trick, sure, but right there. He groans and she shushes him. “There there,” she coos. “It’s alright, I’m well aware you’re romantically defunct.” He pouts at her. “I’m just kidding, love, you’re not. You’re a catch.”

 

He hums. “Thanks, Pez.”

 

“No trouble.”

 

“Oi,” Louis shouts from somewhere behind them. “Zerrie’s alive, then? I’ll ring The Sun.”

 

Perrie thumps him on the arm. “Quiet, you.”

 

Louis sniffs loudly. “I’m a delight,” he declares, cocking his hip a bit. Zayn furrows his brow. He _could_ just be having fun. Then again--

 

“You’re drunk, love,” Perrie plys. “C’mon, then, let’s get you home.”

 

“’m not _drunk,”_ Louis whines. “God, why are you all so uptight? Let’s go to a club, I want to dance.” Zayn frowns at him. Louis really is acting very odd, even for drunk-Louis. He’s actually acting like Louis a few years ago, which is—concerning. Uni Louis was the life of the party. He’s not _not_ now, he’s just as fun, but. Zayn’s a little tipsy to be putting intelligent words to this, but something’s off. He’ll have to try and get Louis to open up. He’s good at that. They understand each other. That one time they’d hooked up and then freaked out and not talked to each other for six months nonwithstanding. It was a long time ago, anyway.

 

“C’mon, Lou,” he tries. “Harry’ll worry.”

 

“Harry can go _fuck himself,_ ” Louis spits. “And Nick. He can go fuck Nick, I don’t give a fuck, do I?” He drains the last of his beer and _slams_ it down on the table. His face crumples after a moment. “I didn’t mean that,” he says, “I don’t want him to fuck Nick, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, God, I’m such a fucking fuck up. God. Forget I said that. Nevermind. Who’s up to go dancing, then?”

 

The booth’s fallen quiet at Louis’ outburst. Jesy’s mouth is hanging open. Niall keeps shuffling his cards without really paying attention. He drops a few on the table and doesn’t pick them up. Perrie reaches to put a hand on his shoulder, and he wrenches it away.

 

“Fine,” he says, and fishes a tenner out of his pocket and slaps it on the table. “I’ll just go by myself, then.”

 

The thing about Louis is he’s fast and small and he’s still both even when he’s drunk. By the time Zayn gets outside to go after him, he can see a taxi pulling around the corner ahead. _Such a fucking drama queen,_ he thinks. He’d been having such a good night, and now he’ll have to spend it chasing after Louis.

 

He doesn’t notice Niall coming up behind him until he hears him clear his throat. “He gone, then?” he asks, tone neutral. Zayn nods.

 

“I’m gonna go get him.”

 

Niall raises his eyebrows. “You’re going to go get him?”

 

Zayn shrugs. “Have to, don’t I?”

 

“Look,” Niall tells him. “I don’t know him half as well as you do, but from what I can tell Louis is an adult, and he can make his own choices, you know? He’ll be alright, he’s smart. Scrappy.” There’s an odd kind of pleading note to Niall’s voice, like Niall really wants him to stay. Zayn flushes a little with pleasure at that idea.

 

Louis _is_ scrappy. Zayn also really, really wants to stay. He spends a long moment fighting with himself—Louis can make his own decisions, true, but his decisions don’t always swing toward “taking care of himself,” and the curl of worry in Zayn’s gut probably isn’t going to go away until he knows he’s safe at home.

 

“Sorry,” he gets out eventually. “He really can be an idiot sometimes.”

 

The momentary flash of disappointment he sees on Niall’s face doesn’t escape his notice. “Alright, then. Text me when you get home, yeah?” His voice pitches up a bit more than it should at the end, like he’s nervous.

 

It’s really fucking cold out here, but Zayn suddenly feels warm down to the tips of his toes. “Yeah,” he says. “Will do.”

 

“Z,” Perrie calls from the door. “What’re you doing?”

 

“Going to get Louis before he gets himself killed,” he says, rolling his eyes.

 

“Tried to tell him he’s a big boy,” Niall says. “Or, well. A small boy who’s old enough to make his own choices, I suppose.”

 

Perrie frowns, her big dark lashes flickering up and down. “You’re drunk,” she decides. “And you don’t have a car. I’ll go get him.”

 

“Pez, you don’t have to do that,” he sighs.

 

“I know,” she says, and Zayn sometimes forgets how small he can feel under her glare. He raises his open palms, which makes her glare a shade more withering. He doesn’t miss fighting with her. She softens after a moment, though. “I’ll get him home safe, promise. You owe me, though.”

 

“Alright,” Zayn says, a little dumbly. Niall’s disappeared somewhere, probably back inside. The tips of his fingers are going a bit numb. Maybe he’s going to get frostbite. That’s just what he needs. A bunch of fingers amputated, perfect. He should go live in a cave somewhere where he can’t make a prat of himself or be a bad friend anymore. They can call him Fingerless Hermit Malik. Children will tell stories about him at sleepovers and scare the pants off each other.

 

Niall smiles widely at him when he comes inside to warm up, though, and he forgets to text Louis to tell him Perrie’s getting him or Perrie to profusely thank her or Harry. Although, maybe it’s better he’s not texting Harry. This is a mess. He shakes his head. He’s staying out of it unless he’s asked. Harry and Louis usually work it out on their own, after all. He’d do best not to meddle.

 

Within the hour, Perrie texts him a picture of a tiny and exhausted-looking Louis under a load of blankets, on the sofa in his and Harry’s flat. Niall buys him two more drinks and shares his chips, and they knock knees together underneath the table throughout the rest of the night. Maybe he won’t become a hermit just yet.

 

***

 

Louis wakes up to a sharp pain in his head and a warm weight on his chest. Ganymede glares at him when he squints his eyes open against the too-bright light; it’s like a fucking _knife,_ Christ, twisting and stabbing.

 

There’s the sound of clanging metal from the kitchen, and he smiles a little against the throbbing in his head. Harry’s making breakfast. Everything’s as it should be.

 

As he wakes up, the contentedness begins to seep away, anxiety rooting in its place. Harry had slept at Nick’s and Louis hadn’t even texted him, and he’d run out on his friends, and—who’d taken him home, he can’t remember, blacked out not too long after getting to the club.

 

“H’lo?” he calls. Maybe it is Harry. He’s always so _loud_ when he comes in, though, he would’ve woken Louis. Ganymede makes a little affronted noise and hops off.

 

“Morning.” Perrie breezes into the room and sets a plate of eggs and bacon down in front of him. The smell makes him want to gag—scratch that, he _is_ gagging. He doesn’t make it to the toilet quite in time and burns with shame, hopes Perrie doesn’t follow him in here. Past that, he can’t stop retching, barely even getting breaths in through the contractions of his stomach and the way his heart’s pounding.

 

“Oh, love,” coos Perrie. “Rough night, then?” She begins rubbing his back in slow circles. It’s making him want to itch out of his skin and also beg her to cuddle him until he feels okay.

 

“You could say that,” he gets out, once the heaving has calmed to an intermittent twist and cough. “Thanks for getting me home. I assume that was you, I mean.”

 

“Yup,” she says. “You owe me brunch.” She doesn’t sound terribly cross, though. He’ll send her flowers anyway. He puts his friends through too much and then he puts them through more when he tries not to. _I’m fucked up,_ he thinks gloomily, staring at the swirl of sick in the toilet. It’s mostly bile. His throat fucking hurts.

 

“I hate to do this,” she hedges, “especially when you’re feeling poorly, but I said I’d meet Jade at Castle Court at half ten, and it’s just gone ten now. Are you alright to be by yourself? When’s Harry coming home?”

 

He doesn’t know. Harry hadn’t said. He hadn’t asked. “Soon,” he says. “I’m fine, go on.” He doesn’t want her to leave and he hopes it doesn’t bleed into his voice. He hates feeling so needy. It’s not one of his better qualities, one he tries to tamp down as much as possible.

 

“Right,” she says. “You’ll feel better with something in your stomach. Come on, then.” She flushes the toilet and hauls him to his feet. “Up you get.”

 

If he cries into Ganymede’s fur for a few minutes after she’s out the door, no one has to know. Except for Ganymede, who licks at his face after he’s finished.

 

“I love you,” he tells her. “I feel like such a fuck-up. Promise you still love me?” She doesn’t pause in her bathing, which he supposes is a yes, even if she seems also to have decided he can’t take care of himself. “You and everyone else,” he murmurs.

 

***

 

Louis’ sleeping on the sofa—again—when Harry gets home. He’s as quiet as he can be opening the door, setting his shoes down by the bench and padding in his socks over to the coffee table. A plate of eggs and bacon, gone cold, sits there. It doesn’t look touched. Worry pulls Harry’s eyebrows together. Louis loves hangover breakfasts. He bends over to clear it.

 

“Hi,” says a croaky voice from behind him. “Nice bum. ‘m enjoying the view, don’t move on my account.”

 

“Hi.” Harry’s not sure what to say, really. Louis is joking around, so maybe he shouldn’t push it. Maybe there isn’t anything _to_ push. Louis had told him to go, after all, and hadn’t texted him either. Best not to bring it up, probably. “You feeling okay?” he settles on.

 

“Rough night,” Louis says with a wince. He sits up and rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Perrie brought me home, if you’re wondering. How was Nick’s?”

 

“Fine.”

 

“Good.”

 

“Can I…can I get you anything?” It’s ridiculous, the way he’s tiptoeing around Louis. Everything’s fine.

 

“Some paracetamol, if you wouldn’t mind.” He shoots a grimace at the plate in Harry’s hand. “Don’t s’pose that’d be good microwaved, would it?”

 

“Probably not,” Harry agrees. “I could do you some more, if you’d like. I’m pretty hungry, anyway.”

 

“Sure. Thanks, love.” Louis seems to relax infinitesimally, Harry mirroring him. He cooks breakfast with tension still sitting in his spine—he hates sleeping on sofas, it messes with his back something fierce—ears perked up to see if Louis says or does anything that might offer a clue about this strange distance he feels growing between them.

 

 _Louis will tell you when he’s ready,_ he reminds himself. _Besides, there might not be anything._ Perrie had brought Louis home, though. He shakes his head. Taking care of Louis’ hangover. That, he can do.

 

They eat breakfast—lunch, really, but it’s Saturday, after all—in front of the telly in relative silence—not uncomfortable, exactly, but a little off. It feels like the molecules in the air have shifted, or something, put themselves in new patterns that are constricting the air Harry can get in just slightly. It’s all very typical, to look at it, but it feels wrong. Harry swallows around the lump growing in his throat as Louis laughs softly at Richard Hammond trying to weld.

 

Louis takes their plates to the sink. His phone is plugged in on the floor next to them, and Harry has a fleeting impulse to unlock it before he feels horribly guilty.

 

“Y’alright?” Louis asks when he comes back into the sitting room.

 

“Yeah, ‘m fine. Sorry. Back hurts.” Harry pouts a bit. He wants Louis close. Pouting usually works. Sure enough, the Louis coos and kisses his forehead before settling back on the couch and pulling Harry half into his lap, his face buried in Louis’ neck. He smells a little—different. Boozy and a bit of that odd smell he gets when he’s feeling poorly, but something else Harry can’t put his finger on.

 

“Stop smelling me,” Louis complains. “I reek. Properly mingin’.”

 

“Nah,” Harry says, then, “Sorry. Love you.”

 

“Love you too, sugarplum.” It’s okay; they’re okay. “Want a neck rub?”

 

Harry really, really does. He nods into Louis’ neck and allows himself to be manhandled into position. Louis’ hands are his favorite. He loves Louis’ hands. They’re so tiny. He’s so little, Harry loves him. He can feel the anxiety of the last however long it’s been start to leave him, a bit. Louis still wants to touch him. They’re fine.

 

After a few minutes, Louis bites down softly on a spot just below Harry’s jaw. He doesn’t actually have a _favorite_ spot (“ _All of your skin is so biteable, Hazza, how am I supposed to choose?”_ ) and Harry just preens under the attention regardless of where it is. Not that he’s not partial to his nipples, but whatever. He lets out a little sigh and pushes back into the touch.

 

“Yeah?” Louis breathes into his ear. A shiver rolls down Harry’s spine, heat starting to pool in his gut. _Yeah._ He nods, a little frantic. Louis huffs a laugh. “All right, all right. Shhh, I’ve got you love.” He brings him off embarrassingly quickly, one hand in Harry’s pants and one running all over his body, tweaking his nipples and pulling at his hair. Relief floods Harry at Louis still _knowing_ him this well, and that feels very silly once he’s thought it, because why would Louis have forgotten? And then he can’t focus on anything but the pleasure building in his groin and the blissful whiteout he groans through with Louis’ mouth on his ear.

 

When he stops trembling quite as much, he turns his head back to press a sloppy kiss to the corner of Louis’ mouth. “Your turn,” he says, a hint of a question in his inflection. After much trial and error, he’s found ways to ask that let Louis say no easily but don’t make him feel like a “freak” (his words, not Harry’s) for _needing_ to be asked. Harry had gone off a few times about how _everyone_ needs to be asked, but Louis had gotten quiet and strange, so. They make it work.

 

Louis hesitates, a bit. Harry can feel the rabbiting of his pulse below the thin skin under his jaw, in the tips of his fingers pressing into the meat of Harry’s shoulder. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly, and then sighs a “Yeah,” against Harry’s mouth. Harry kind of wants to ask again but he also really doesn’t want to make this weird when it’s moving more and more towards normal, towards calming the raging ball of anxiety that’s beginning to sit stubbornly in his chest.

 

“Can I go down on you?” he murmurs. Louis gives a full-body shiver and a quick, jerky nod.

 

Harry’s slow, gentle about it, even as Louis urges him on with his hands in his hair and bitten-off whines. After a minute, he frowns a bit and pulls back.

 

“You taste different,” he says.

 

Louis throws his arm over his face. “Jesus Christ.”

 

“No, no,” Harry says, kissing Louis’ inner thigh and nuzzling into the soft hair there. “Not like—you taste good, you always do, I love how you taste, nevermind, I’m sorry.” He licks at him a little in apology. “Sorry, forget I said anything.”

 

Louis keeps his hand over his face throughout and clenches his thighs around Harry’s head when he comes. Harry goes in to kiss him, after, but he grimaces and shakes his head, so Harry wipes his mouth on his arm and fights against the tears pricking at his eyes. They’re _fine,_ so why does he feel like this?

 

Louis nods off against his shoulder after a bit, body still curled a bit tight where normally after he’s come he’s boneless and melting. It only takes a few more minutes for Harry to follow him. He dreams he’s walking a tightwire and can’t see anything beneath him, and he’s almost to the other side when he slips and plunges downward, waking up with a start. Louis’ still dozing as his heartbeat slows down. He makes a grocery list on his phone whilst he waits for him to wake.

 

***

 

 _Heard ur stressed ):,_ Niall texts on Monday morning. _watch this!_[ _https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Au-w5fgc3w_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Au-w5fgc3w)

 

Zayn giggles in the middle of a department meeting and only withers a little bit under the course director’s glare.

 

***

 

“I’m going to visit Liam in a couple of weeks,” Louis tells him whilst Harry’s doing the Sunday crossword. “Just for the weekend. He and Sophia are having some trouble.” It sounds careful, almost rehearsed, like Louis’ scared of Harry’s reaction, when there’s no real reason for him to be.

 

Harry frowns. “Want me to come with?”

 

“Nah,” Louis says, suddenly cheery, turning his gaze back to the scone he’s picking at. “He’s properly pathetic when he’s sad, you know that, it won’t be any fun. He gets all snotty and gross.”

 

“Right,” Harry says. “Okay. Um. Have fun?”

 

“Will do.”

 

“Do you know,” Harry says, to break the odd tension that’s settling over their table, “what year _The Sound of Music_ came out?”

 

Louis scrunches his nose and thinks for a moment. “I want to say sixty-five.”

 

“Thanks,”

 

The fall back into silence until Louis gets up to feed Ganymede, leaving half his scone on the plate.

 

***

 

Monday rolls around before Louis’ really prepared for it. He wings it through his morning classes—silent reading for the year 11’s and then a film for the year 9’s with a worksheet he wrote up whilst his older students were reading—and feels incredibly guilty about it. He’s settled into a groove, with teaching, normally has his lesson plans all sorted Sunday night, tweaking them as necessary from years previous. Despite the quiet, rational voice in the back of his head saying _You’re going through a lot right now and it’s okay not to have everything totally together,_ he grins and bears it and doesn’t ask for help.

 

Lunch arrives, finally, blessedly, and once his last student from his fourth period is out the door, he collapses forward onto his desk, knocking over a few pencils and groaning aloud. He needs a nap, but he also needs to get something together for his sixth period and also work out what scenes they’re blocking today and also answer approximately a million emails and also text Liam and also phone his GP to be sure everything’s going alright with referring him to that clinic, and also ring that clinic. A nap sounds much better than all of that, though. He’s beginning to nod off—he hasn’t been sleeping well, weird nightmares rousing him in a cold sweat—when there’s sudden bustle in his room.

 

“What,” he groans, “Just a few more minutes—“

 

“Oh,” he hears. “Sorry, Mr. T, didn’t realize you were—“

 

 _Shit._ Of course. Mondays are the LGBT student group’s meeting day. The club he sponsors. The club he, personally, did a huge amount of the work in getting started.

 

“Fuck,” he says eloquently. “Shit, wait, forget I said that, Rosie, please. Don’t mind me, go ahead and set up. Anything I can help with?”

 

Rosie gives him a wary look and gets her notebook out of her bag. “I don’t think so, actually. Aidan’s giving a short presentation and then it’s just bits and bobs. Nothing major. D’you need anything? I can get you a cup of tea, or—“

 

“No, no” he assures her. “You all go on. I’m just a bit swamped, sorry, with the play and all. Go on ahead, I’ll be here if you need anything.”

 

The incredible _loudness_ of the meeting makes Louis’ head pound, and more than once he bites back the urge to tell them to _be quiet._ He’s always been delighted at how loud and enthusiastic they are, how many of them show up in his classroom every Monday, but it’s just making his head hurt. He hates himself, a little bit. He can’t concentrate on lesson planning, even after several valiant attempts, so he goes to answer emails instead, rattling off one-line responses that he’s not sure make any sense.

 

Harry texts him a _how are you_ halfway through the period.

 

Automatically, Louis types out _fine (: how’re you? <3 _even though he kind of feels like sneaking to the staff restroom and calling Harry and crying. That wouldn’t be calm and composed, though. Louis is doing calm and composed.

 

He’s got a free period after they leave, and he locks his door and phones Liam.

 

“Hey,” Liam greets him. “How’s it going?”

 

Liam’s the only person he’s actually told the details of what’s going on to, and even then in kind of vague terms until he’d gotten the point and stopped asking Louis why he suddenly needed to come stay with him for the weekend. He feels very embarrassed and weak about the whole matter, and it helps that he doesn’t have to see Liam’s face. The careful, gentle note in his voice doesn’t escape his notice, though.

 

“Fine,” he snaps. “Just fucking peachy, Liam, how are you?” He can practically see the wounded, puppy dog look in Liam’s eyes and he rubs at his temples. “Sorry, sorry. Just a shit day and my head hurts and I’ve just listened to a 14 year old give completely wrong information about Stonewall for half an hour. How’re you?”

 

“Alright,” Liam says. “Thor’s still teething—ow, _no,_ not my hand. Not my shoe either. Sorry, sorry.” Louis smiles at the little glimpse into Liam’s world, a world completely, it seems, outside of Louis’ increasingly melodramatic life. “Ow, _fuck,_ not my hair either, blimey—“

 

“You should let him,” Louis chirps. “Get rid of that shaggy thing you’ve got going on. Are you trying for a man bun, then?”

 

“ _No,_ ” Liam grouses. “Soph just likes it this way.”

 

“Ah well,” Louis sighs. “We can’t all have good taste.”

 

“Harry looks like _bigfoot,_ you can’t talk.”

 

“Mmm,” Louis agrees. “A very attractive bigfoot. His feet aren’t the only big thing, if you catch my drift.”

 

Liam squawks. Louis barely has any straight friends, but he and Liam have been thick as thieves since primary, and his pathetic attempts not to squirm at any mention of dicks are hilarious. Bless him. He tries so hard. “Ew, Louis, I don’t need to hear about that. ‘sides, isn’t that, like, the problem?”

 

Louis’ budding good mood immediately falls flat. “Yep,” he says.

 

“Sorrysorrysorry.” Liam stumbles over his words when he’s trying to cover a blunder. “Just meant it as a joke, I’m sorry. Are you—I mean, does he know?”

 

“No,” Louis grits out. “He doesn’t.” _Leave it,_ he screams in his head.

 

“Don’t you think you should tell him? I mean, not that I’m trying to tell you what to do, but. It’s his baby too, innit?”

 

“It’s not a fucking _baby,”_ Louis half-yells before catching himself and lowering his voice. “It’s a fucking clump of cells is what it is, and Harry doesn’t need to know about it. It’s my fucking fuck-up and I’m taking care of it.”

 

“Alright, alright.” Liam’s tone is soothing and it sends Louis’ hackles up further. He doesn’t need to be fucking _babied,_ least of all by Liam. “You’re right, I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

 

“Nah,” he says, and then, “Sorry for snapping. Been a bit stressed.” He runs a hand through his hair.

 

“Understandable,” Liam says. “Listen, are you alright? I’ve got to take Thor out, he’s sniffing about weirdly, think he has to piss.”

 

“That’s fine, you go ahead. Talk to you later, okay?”

 

“Love you, Lou.”

 

“Love you too.” There’s no real _reason_ for Louis to feel choked up again, but he does. Fucking mood swings. Fucking hormones. Fucking _bodies. His_ fucking body, to be specific.

 

“You’re such a fucking traitor,” he tells it. “What did I ever do to you? No, wait, don’t answer that.”

 

He puts a film on in sixth period and calls it a day.

 

***

 

There’s a missed call from his mum when he checks his phone on the bus back home. She hasn’t let a message, and anxiety clenches hard around his heart, his brain immediately shuffling through the ways things could have gone horribly, terribly wrong: what if one of the girls is sick; what if Dan’s walked out, what if—

 

She calls again just as his catastrophizing starts to make him hyperventilate, and he picks up this time.

 

“Hi Mum,” he says.

 

“Louis, love, glad I got ahold of you. Is now a good time?”

 

“Yeah. ‘m on the bus home. Is something wrong?” He tries to keep his tone light.

 

“No, no, don’t worry—I can practically hear you fretting from here. I was just calling to check in, say hello. You haven’t rung for quite a while,” she says, a little carefully.

 

Shit. Louis’ heart sinks. He doesn’t mean to neglect his family, he’s just been so _stressed_ and exhausted and weirdly paranoid about talking on the phone. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Busy time at work, I’m so sorry. I’ll ring more often.”

 

“I wasn’t scolding, love,” Jay chides. “Just a bit worried about you. You taking care of yourself?”

 

“You got the transfer, right? I sent it last week.”

 

“Yes, I got it, thank you, and I keep telling you not to. I told you, we’re doing alright. You should save it and get yourself something nice. Maybe you and Harry could go on holiday. Anyway, that’s not what I asked,” she says, tone gently chiding.

 

Tears start to clog Louis’ throat. He wants his mum, wants her to hold him and kiss his head and rock him and tell him everything’s going to be alright and that she’ll sort it. He’s _twenty five,_ he ought not to want to go running to his mum when something goes wrong. “m fine,” he chokes out, but his voice wobbles.

 

“Boo. You don’t sound fine. D’you want me to come visit? I can take a couple of days off, it’s no trouble, I haven’t seen you in ages. Here, there’s even a ferry tonight, although I don’t know that I could get to Liverpool in time. Or early tomorrow morning, how about that?”

 

Shame curls in his stomach at how much he wants to say _yes, please come, please take care of me, I want you to drop everything for me._ He can’t ask that of her, though, even if she’s offering. It would be selfish. “No,” he grits out. It’s the right thing to do. “No, mum, don’t be daft. I’m fine, just stressed.”

 

He can hear the frown in her voice. “You’re not well. I can tell. A mum knows these things, you know.”

 

“I don’t—“ He can’t talk about this here, there’s already people staring at him as he fights off tears. “Can we talk later?” he asks. “’m on the bus.”

 

“Sure,” she says. “I’ve got to take Dais and Phoebs to ballet soon. D’you want to say hi?”

 

Saying hi to Daisy and Phoebe turns into saying hi to all of his sisters and his brother, save Lottie, who’s out with friends. He makes a mental note to text her later. He’s nearing his stop and he makes his goodbyes quickly, eyes still burning despite his harsh blinking and shaking his head. What’s _wrong_ with him, Christ almighty.

 

Harry’s at his desk when he opens the door, blasting Beyoncé at just a notch below what would have Gladys Kravitz poking her nose in their door under the guise of thinking something was wrong. Fucking nosy old bat. Harry doesn’t seem to hear him come in, engrossed in whatever he’s got spread out on the wooden surface and popping his hips back and forth to the beat. Louis’ desperately fond of him. He sidles up behind him, quiet as he can be, and hooks his chin over Harry’s shoulder. “Hi,” he breathes into his neck, winding his arms around his warm, taut middle and squeezing.

 

“Hiiiiii.” Harry smiles back at him and pecks the hand that Louis’ got on his shoulder. “How was your day?”

 

“Okay,” Louis says, a bit too quickly. He can see the way Harry’s brow scrunches a bit and then relaxes. “How was yours?”

 

Harry lets out a long sigh. “A bit shit, if I’m honest. Half of my rhetoric students didn’t turn in their essays on time. Got so many emails about sudden flus or relatives dying. Like, it’s not as if I’m _mean,_ I don’t think, I try to make it clear that I’m very understanding, I just wish they wouldn’t _lie_ to me. Makes it hard for me to help, you know?”

 

“Mmmmm,” Louis murmurs, kissing at Harry’s neck again. “I’m sorry, love. That sounds really difficult. What are you gonna do?”

 

“I don’t know,” Harry sighs, a pout forming at the corners of his mouth. Louis wants to kiss it—that’s almost certainly why Harry’s doing it. He’s a big, weird, ridiculous baby, Harry is. The love of Louis’ life. “I can’t help whatever’s bothering them if they don’t tell me what’s going on.”

 

Louis snorts. “I doubt it’s anything beyond poor time management and a lot of alcohol, love.” He is very deliberate about not prickling at the poorly concealed subtext of what Harry’s saying.

 

“Yeah,” Harry says after a moment. “You’re right. It’s still upsetting. I hate being lied to. Makes me feel like people think I’m stupid.”

 

“You’re not stupid,” Louis assures him. “You’re my brilliant academic boyfriend.”

 

“Fiancé,” Harry murmurs, fiddling with the ring on his left hand. _Always in my heart_ sits warm against his skin, the warm metal of Harry’s cross pressing against where Louis’ own heart thumps. He’d vehemently refused Harry’s pleading to buy him a ring in return. They really hadn’t had the money for the one he’d bought Harry. Instead, Louis wears his necklace most days, giddy that Harry would trust him with his most treasured possession.

 

“My brilliant academic fiancé, then.” He kisses Harry’s ear. “Mum sends her love.”

 

“You spoke to her, then?” Harry’s voice is a little higher than it ought to be.

 

Louis’ brow furrows. “Yep. What of it?”

 

Harry shrugs but goes a bit tense. “Just noticed you hadn’t phoned in a while, ‘s all.”

 

Louis calls his mother twice a week during his free period, typically. Harry must’ve been talking to her, unless he’s going through Louis’ call log, which is a thought he’s not going to entertain because it makes his blood boil. “Oh?”

 

Guilt flashes across Harry’s face for the briefest of moments. “Talked to her a few days ago.” Harry and Jay talk all the time. Louis’ long since gotten used to it, since the first time he came home to Harry animatedly discussing _Downton Abbey_ and then given Louis the phone, saying his mum had wanted to say hi. Harry shouldn’t be acting weird about it, all squirrely like he’s done something he thinks is wrong and is trying to act casual to cover it up. Harry’s a really, really terrible actor.

 

“Anything interesting, then?” Louis is much better at forcing casual. He'd studied acting, after all.

 

“Nah, just asked after you, said she hadn’t heard from you in a bit.”

 

“She call you or you call her?”

 

Harry hesitates. “I called her.”

 

“Just to catch up, then? For a chat?”

 

“Louis,” Harry sighs. “Stop it.”

 

“Stop what?”

 

“Trying to start a fight. I just called your mum to say hi. That’s all.” He’s lying, but Louis is very, very tired. He wants to push but he also kind of wants to curl up on the sofa with Harry and not talk about it, which is not like him at all. Which will probably make Harry even _weirder_ than he already is, clearly calling Louis’ mum to check up on him and see if he’s said anything to her.

 

He bites his lip. “I wish—“ He struggles for the words. “I don’t like when I feel like people are trying to keep tabs on me behind my back. I notice, y’know. I’m alright, just…dealing with some stuff. Nothing you need to worry about.” It’s not a lie, exactly.

 

Harry fusses with his hair for a moment before responding, slow and measured. “It makes me nervous, or, like, I should say, I _feel_ nervous when you get all…I dunno. When you get private. I respect your right to it, it just, like—reminds me of bad times, you know.”

 

Louis does, for all that he resents that people in his life don’t trust him to keep secrets from them. He’s given them plenty of reason not to. “I understand,” he says. “I’m really fine, though. I wish you’d just said something instead of asking my mum behind my back.”

 

“I know,” Harry says. “I’m sorry, and I won’t do it again. I love you.”

 

“Love you too.” Louis kisses behind his ear, nuzzling into his slightly greasy hair.

 

They stay there, Louis pressed up against Harry’s back and the pair of them swaying slightly to and fro, for a long time. The lump in Louis’ throat doesn’t dislodge, and Harry’s pulse rabbits under his hands continuously until they break apart at Ganymede’s demands to be fed.

 

“I’ll feed her,” Harry murmurs.

 

“Thanks. I’m gonna—“ he jerks a thumb behind him, “—go shower.”

 

“You want company?” Harry sounds so earnest and hopeful and he’s so _good_ and Louis feels sick to his stomach when he just shrugs and walks away. He sits with his head tilted back against the tiles until long after the tips of his fingers wrinkle, until the hot water runs out and a little while after.

 

***

 

It’s not really even a conscious decision. Louis’ in the shower, and Harry had asked if he’d wanted company only to receive an indifferent shrug and a closed door. Hot tears had sprung to his eyes. He doesn’t know what’s _wrong._ Louis has been inching farther and farther away from him while simultaneously getting louder and brighter and weirder any time anyone’s around to see them, needling at Zayn and Niall and shouting at people who cut him off in the car park at the Tesco’s while getting ever-quieter and more brittle, closed-off when they’re alone together, which they are less and less. Harry feels like he’s slipping through his fingers and all he can imagine is worst-case scenarios, affairs and brain tumors and the very real possibility that Louis’ relapsed. He won’t let Harry _touch him._

 

A sudden vibration startles him out of his brooding and he glances at the bedside table. Normally Louis plays music whilst he showers, sometimes singing along, but he’s left it out, and it’s like Harry’s body’s moving without his permission. Louis’ passcode is Harry’s birthday. He’s never taken advantage of knowing that before, and shame burns hot in his gut, but he needs to _know._

 

If there’s nothing, then they can go back to this weird limbo thing until it clears up. Harry trusts Louis to work through things, generally, but not necessarily to take care of himself, and he has a tendency to keep big things from Harry, from everyone.

 

He starts with his texts. There’s nothing much: an exchange with Lottie about cosmetology school; paragraph-long texts from his mum updating him on all his siblings; Zayn asking to hang out or where he is; entire conversations with Stan conducted in emoji. There’s quite a lot from Liam, too, just _call me_ and a few apologies that confuse him. Wary of the sound of the shower coming from behind the door, he opens Louis’ voicemail and keys in his birthday again. He’s got one off Liam from two days ago.

 

Liam sort of sounds like he’s talking inside a tunnel, but Harry can hear him well enough. _Hey,_ the message says, _sorry I couldn’t talk earlier. I know I said you could ring whenever, that was my bad. Anyway, I’m sorry for pushing, but I really do think you should tell Harry, if only because you need someone to support you who’s like, actually there. Right. Well. Give me a ring when you get this? Or don’t. It’s up to you. Love you._

 

Harry’s heart begins to hammer double-time, his whole body feeling cold and shaky, like he’s starting to float out of it. Tell him what? Oh God. Something’s properly wrong, he’s not been imagining it. He wanted to be imagining it.

 

He’s on autopilot as he pulls up Louis’ Facebook messenger—nothing—and then his browser, scrolling with a shaking hand through his history. Lots of random bits and bobs that are probably for the play, but there’s one, a few weeks back, that makes his heart feel like it’s going to stop.

 

 _How long,_ Louis had Googled, _do you have to be pregnant to have an abortion?_

 

And then, _abortion clinics northern Ireland._

 

Following it: _abortion clinics Doncaster_ and _abortion clinics Manchester._

 

Harry’s going to be sick, but Louis’ in the toilet, so he can't. He doesn’t know what to do with this information; he never would’ve _thought._ Louis’ _pregnant,_ on one hand, which makes Harry almost incandescent with happiness, they could _have their own baby,_ a baby that’s _theirs, both of theirs,_ and that was supposed to be _extremely unlikely to impossible._ When had it even—Harry racks his brains. Maybe…Christmas? Louis’ birthday? They didn’t think they had to be careful, not like when they were younger. Louis’ _pregnant,_ God.

 

Louis is also _planning to get an abortion,_ from the looks of it. Had he—something pricks at the back of Harry’s mind, some little kernel of sand that’s irritating his brain, but he can’t think of it right now, thoughts whirring too fast. Does Louis not think he wants it? Does he think they’re not ready? Money’s a bit tight, but Harry has savings— _oh my_ _God, Louis is pregnant_. Maybe it’s a body thing, but it’s a _miracle,_ Harry can help him get through this, at the end of nine months they’d have a _baby—_

 

“What are you doing with my phone?”

 

Harry freezes. Louis’ voice is quiet and low in that dangerous way that he gets when he’s _properly_ angry, dangerous and reactive and cutting right to the bone. Louis isn’t mean but he can be when pushed.

 

“I’m sorry,” Harry rushes out, “I was just—“

 

“You were _just?_ What, just lying to me when you said _just now_ you were going to stop going behind my back to invade my privacy? I can’t _believe_ you, what the _fuck,_ Harry—“

 

Harry wants to let him talk, knows for them to get over this Louis has to get out all of his anger until he’s hollow inside, but the words bubble up out of his mouth without him thinking them. “You’re pregnant.”

 

Louis goes suddenly, completely still—he's rarely, if ever, truly motionless, and it shocks Harry a little to see. The silence in the room hangs heavy around them for a long moment, Louis’ wild eyes fixed on Harry’s. Harry’s reminded of the time Louis had goaded him into going on the largest roller coaster at Universal, the one with the drop almost straight down. Before the lurching, uncontrollable falling, there was a breath of a pause, right at the top, with the oncoming plummet in full view, inevitable.

 

“No I’m not.” Louis seems to shake himself, snapping out of it. “What the fuck, that’s—“

 

Harry starts babbling. “Louis, don’t lie to me. Please. Please, I’m sorry for invading your privacy, but please don’t lie to me, you know I can’t stand that. I felt like you were hiding something and—“

 

Louis flings his hands up. “So what if I was, then?” He sounds a little hysterical, his voice climbing continuously higher.

 

“Lou, this is—this is a fucking _miracle,_ you realize that? Like, this wasn’t supposed to happen.”

 

“Exactly.” He half-shouts it, up in the highest register of his voice, ending with a kind of irritated laugh that Harry doesn’t know how to interpret, so he goes on.

 

“No, I mean, I know we’re not really ready, and this isn’t how we were thinking about it happening, but Lou, you’re having our _baby._ ”

 

The change in Louis is immediate and leaves Harry confused; where he had been vibrating with anger, clearly gearing up for the knock-down-drag-out they’d been fast approaching, he’s suddenly gone quiet and small. Maybe he’s reconsidering—maybe he needs some time to think about it.

 

Harry can do that. Now that he knows, they can handle this. He’s not quite sure what to do, so he moves to wrap Louis in his arms.

 

Louis ducks away from him, flinching and curling a little more in on himself, arms protecting his middle. “I don’t—“ Louis starts, his voice shaking. He’s staring at his own feet. “I’m. This is a lot for me to handle, okay, and I’m sorry I hid it from you, but I did it for a reason, and the fact that you…that you didn’t even give me that _choice—“_

 

“Baby,” Harry starts, but Louis silences him with a half-raised hand.

 

“I’m really tired,” he says softly. He sounds exhausted. Harry aches to hold him. “Can we just go to bed?”

 

Harry’s always preferred to sleep on things before having any potentially life-altering conversations. Louis’ usually the one who wants to get everything out there as fast as possible. Harry’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Some sleep will help. “Sure, love,” he says. “Of course.”

 

Neither of them fall asleep for a long time, but they both pretend. Harry gazes into the dark of their room and thinks about a little girl (boy? He doesn’t care, not really, but he had always pictured a girl) with Louis’ nose and eyes and maybe Harry’s curls, tiny and pink and soft and helpless, thinks about tiny fingers curling around his thumb, about Louis holding their child to his chest, soft blankets and the extra room in their flat converted into a nursery with light green walls and a zoo theme, about walking around town with one of those slings that keeps the baby safe against his body, pointing out dogs and trees and talking, constantly, because language development starts even before birth.

 

He thinks about first words, and runs a thumb over the _Hi_ on his bicep, surrounded by other permanent inscriptions of Louis on his body, but this. This is so much _more,_ so much more permanent and wonderful, this could be _everything_. They just have to figure it out.

 

***

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Louis’ gone before Harry wakes up, which isn’t uncommon—it’s past nine, and Louis leaves for work at about quarter past seven so he can have some time in his classroom before his day starts. Harry frowns. He’d been hoping Louis would get him up so they could at least talk a bit before he had to go, but Harry is notoriously impossible to get out of bed (not as bad as Zayn, which he reminds Louis every time he complains) and often doesn’t remember his alarm or his mum or his fiancé trying to wake him. Purportedly, he grumbles something along the lines of “I’m getting up, go away” and then goes right back to sleep. He never has any recollection of it.

 

Once he’s got the kettle on, he checks around the flat to see if Louis’ left a note or anything; it wouldn’t be typical for him, but it doesn’t hurt to check, does it? Nothing turns up, though, and Harry soon settles onto the sofa with his tea and Weetabix and tries to get caught up on his emails.

 

He can’t concentrate, though—the vast majority of his brain is completely stuck on _Louis is pregnant_ and _we could have a baby._ He’s restless and keeps shifting position, switching tabs every minute. Louis hasn’t texted. He’s a little concerned about that, but he gives Louis space and resists the urge to check up on him. His script and shoulder bag are gone from the table, so he’s definitely gone to work. He’s fine.

 

Maybe a walk will clear his head. He’s not getting anything done, anyway. He whistles a little as he gathers his keys and wallet, then switches to singing under his breath.

 

_Isn’t she lovely, isn’t she wonderful…_

 

***

 

Louis is maybe losing his mind. He’s read the same sentence at least five times and he can’t glean any kind of meaning from it. Finally, he gives up and circles the whole thing in red pen and bangs a big question mark next to it, wincing a little. He’d hated when his teachers returned his essays with question marks and cross-outs and _unclear_ all over them. Maybe he shouldn’t be marking, but he needs something to focus on.

 

It takes Ms. Cupitt clearing her throat three times before he realizes she’s here and trying to get his attention.

 

“Sorry,” he stutters, “didn’t hear you there. Elbow-deep in these.” He gestures to the stacks of coursework surrounding him.

 

“No trouble,” she says, and then tilts her head to the side and purses her lips as if considering him. It makes him feel itchy. “Are you alright, Louis?”

 

“Fine, just stressed.” It rolls of his tongue with practiced ease. “Thank you for checking in. Can I help you with anything?”

 

“No,” she says slowly, “No, just wanted to check you were managing alright. The play’s coming along well, then?”

 

“Brilliant,” he says. “Olivia’s really something. Great cast all around.”

 

“Yes.” She gives him a warm smile. “Well, if there’s any way I can assist, please do let me know. Take care of yourself, Louis.”

 

“Thanks.” She’s funny. He’s always liked her. She’s a bit severe—proper old-fashioned Protestant woman—but very kind. His ideal department head, if he’s honest.  He waves to her as she leaves and turns back to the essay he was marking. He’s forgotten what it was about.

 

Frustratingly, his symptoms are barreling on despite his _plan_ to manage all of it, and they’re making him want to rip off his own skin. The nausea’s out every morning in full force and he’s been teaching through it, chewing on candied ginger when he can and gritting his teeth. His clothes are fitting more and more oddly, past the point where he can chalk it up to his brain changing the shape of his reflection. Smoking’s taking the edge off his hunger, but he’s _ravenous,_ and he hates himself for it. He can’t take much more of this. His appointment is in two weeks, confirmed and everything. He just has to stick it out until then, and things will go back to normal. He can forget about the whole thing.

 

Of course, Harry knowing complicates that a bit. He takes his glasses off and kneads at his temples. More than a bit. He doesn’t know what to do, and he’s not used to that with Harry, not used to being unsure of their direction. There’s this yawning gap between them, all of a sudden, and Louis isn’t sure if it can be bridged.

 

Harry wants the—he wants Louis to keep it. That much is clear by his reaction. As much as Louis wants to be _furious_ with him for that, Louis’d not actually _said_ what he wanted (wants, _wants_ ) and they’ve talked about having children, how much they both wanted kids that were biologically both of theirs even though they’d agreed they’d love one that wasn’t just as much. Of course Harry sees this as some kind of miracle. He’s so _happy,_ and Louis can’t bear to take that away from him.

 

He can’t bear this either, though. He spends a long, quiet free period trying to figure out how he’s going to make Harry understand that, understand the way every day his body is less his, once he was finally settling into it, laying down arms and making peace. It’s just— _it’s not fucking fair,_ he thinks, blinking back tears. It’s not fair how he has to be the bad guy and take this thing they both _want,_ in theory, away.

 

His sixth period file in just as he’s contemplating whether getting hit by a car on his way home might induce a miscarriage without killing him. The year 9’s are a welcome distraction. He’s hyperactive, jumping around and gesturing wildly, and they eat it up. He’s liked, he’s useful, he’s _not fucking thinking about it._

 

***

 

Harry kind of strolls aimlessly down the Lisburn road. He had started out thinking of getting coffee, and then remembered that caffeine would more than likely make his jitters worse. Neither Gemma nor his mum had answered their phones; normally, his next call would be Jay, but he doesn’t know if Louis’ told her and he’d like to break the news together, anyway. If there’s news to break. Which there will be—Louis’ freaking out, but Harry will be calm and reliable, show him they can do this, that they can get through these few months and have a _baby_ at the end. A baby. _Their_ baby.

 

Harry’s got a huge, dumb grin on his face, he knows, dimples popping and lips stretched as wide as they’ll go. The dread he’s been feeling is still _there,_ but it’s muted by the giddiness of _oh my God they could have a baby._ The near-mania of that bounces him down the street, has him waving at strangers and humming little tunes.

 

Something catches the corner of his eye and he reels backwards a little, almost toppling over. He hopes their kid doesn’t inherit his balance. _God, their_ kid _._

 

It’s a gigantic soft toy giraffe. It wouldn’t fit in their flat—at least not with the way it’s set up right now—but he finds himself pulled into the shop, bells tinkling as he ducks inside. There’s a bored teenager sitting behind the register on her mobile. She flicks him a glance and smiles. “Let me know if I can help you find anything,” she says.

 

“’m alright, thanks,” he replies. “Just looking around.”

 

“Grand.” She turns her attention back to her phone and giggles.

 

Harry’s always been a touchy shopper, automatically runs his fingers over garment racks, lingering on velvets and silks and furs. He’s no stranger to soft toys, either, but—they mean something else, now, something that twinges in his heart.

 

He circles the shop several times and finds himself returning to a baby blue, impossibly soft toy mouse, smaller than his hand, with big ears and paws and eyes that look like she’s smiling. Harry’s legs seem to carry him of their own accord up to the register. _My little mouse,_ he remembers himself saying to Louis, way back when they’d first started dating. Louis had wrinkled his nose but flushed in a pleased way that betrayed him.

 

“H’lo?” The girl behind the counter waves at him. “That’ll be five pound fifty.”

 

He leaves with a plastic carrier bag he can’t stop peeking into.

 

Gemma rings him back as he’s walking home. “How ‘bout ye?” he greets her in his best Belfast accent. It’s not very good. Niall’s brilliant at accents, and he’s tried to teach him, but he’s declared Harry _hopeless, bleedin’ hopeless, so he is._

 

“You’re not good at that,” she remarks. “What’s up?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“You called me.”

 

“Oh!” So he had. He’d been distracted by a woman with a pram. “Sorry, yeah. I um. Well. You know how, like, Lou and I, er, I mean, like, we had been talking about, er, maybe having kids someday, you know?”

 

“Uh huh,” she murmurs.

 

“Right, so, like, I dunno exactly how to say this, ‘cos like, I dunno, it’s a bit weird, but. Louis’ pregnant.”

 

He can hear Gemma quickly cover her gasp. “Oh,” she says, careful and measured. “And how, er, how’s—you, um, how’re you feeling about that? I mean, you personally, and then you and him. How’d that—I thought you couldn’t, anyway?”

 

Harry sighs. “It’s a bit complicated, that. I didn’t—well, he didn’t tell me.”

 

“How’d you know then?”

 

“I um…” He blushes and ducks his head down, scratching the back of his neck. “Look, don’t yell at me, okay?”

 

“Harry,” she says flatly, clearly unimpressed.

 

“I went through his mobile,” he says, and grimaces at the way he can practically _hear_ Gemma’s disappointed face. “I know, I know, you don’t have to tell me. It’s the first time I’ve done it and it’s the only time I’ll do it. He’s just—you know how I’ve been saying he’s been weird, and all, lately, acting off.” She murmurs her assent. “It’s just been like, getting worse, you know? And it was driving me crazy. I thought he was maybe, like, cheating on me, or, I don’t know, had cancer. It was just like. I needed to know.”

 

“Right,” she says. “That’s understandable. Not right, but understandable.”

 

“Right,” he says. “So. I kind of like, found out because he was, er, googling, like, abortion?” An elderly couple scowl at him as he passes and he hides his face. “Oh God, I just got the filthiest look. Er. Sorry. So.”

 

“So he doesn’t want to keep it.”

 

“I mean. I guess? I dunno. He like—he went all weird, and quiet. We haven’t really talked about it yet.”

 

“Okay,” she says. “And how are _you_ feeling?”

 

“I want him to keep it,” Harry says. “I really, really want us to have a family, you know? Like, this is what we wanted, like, we were looking into like, egg freezing and all, but it was too expensive and stuff. It’s—we didn’t think it could happen, you know?”

 

“Right,” she says slowly. “I hear where you’re coming from.”

 

“I dunno. I guess we need to, like, talk about it, but. I think we can make it work, you know? Even if it’s a little earlier than we’d planned, or like, I dunno. Maybe I’m being stupid.”

 

“You’re not being stupid,” she says. “At least not more than you normally are.”

 

“Heeeeeeeeey.” He pouts. “I’m not stupid.”

 

“Yes, yes, we all know, you’re brilliant, God, don’t ask me to inflate your giant head. I’m happy for you, Harry, I really am. I just think you need to talk to him about how you feel. How you both feel. It’s a big decision. Have you told mum?”

 

“No,” he says. “She didn’t answer her phone.”

 

“It might…you might want to wait, a bit. I mean, he’s not far along, is he? If you didn’t notice.”

 

“No,” he says. “Probably er…two months? Eight weeks? You’re supposed to measure in weeks, aren’t you?”

 

“I dunno, do I. But that’s dead early, isn’t it?”

 

“I think so.”

 

Gemma’s tone is gentle. “Then there’s a lot that could go wrong, even if you two do decide to go ahead with it. Don’t get Mum’s hopes up about grandbabies, is all I’m saying. ‘sides, you know she’s a right gossip.”

 

“She is _not._ ”

 

“She’s a bit of one, H, you have to admit.”

 

“Maybe a little,” he hedges.

 

“Hey.” Her voice goes soft and kind. “I love you. I hope this turns out for you. I want a niece or nephew. I’ve always wanted to be the cool aunt.”

 

“I know.” He can feel his smile stretching over his face. “Vodka aunt.”

 

“Absolutely. And obviously I’ll demand it be named after me if it’s a girl. What’s the male form of Gemma? Gemmo?”

 

“Jemery? No wait. It’s supposed to be Jeremy.”

 

“Weirdo,” she says, sounding fond. “Look, I’ve got to get back to work, but text me later?”

 

“Yep. Love you, bye,” he says as he’s walking up the steps to their flat. After a little hemming and hawing, he decides to set the mouse on Louis’ pillow. It looks nice there.

 

***

 

Louis’ still got a bastard of a headache by the time rehearsal comes around, and his whole body feels tender and too full. He knows he shouldn’t be snapping at his actors and stage manager and the two year 9’s who come up to ask him a question about costumes, but—he’s having a hard time.

 

He hates blocking sword fights, anyway. He loves to _do_ them, but imagining how they’re going to happen is another animal, one that requires rather more cognition than he has to spare at that moment. All of the actors are eyeing him warily and Clem asks him if he’s feeling all right. It just makes him snappier. He’s got to get out of here before he makes someone properly cry. A couple already look on the verge.

 

“Right,” he calls, after maybe an hour of trial and error and _no no no not like that, didn’t you hear what I just said?_ “Good work everyone, but let’s call it a day. Sorry I’m such a curmudgeon. You’re all brilliant. Keep working on your lines, we’ll pick this back up tomorrow.” Christ, it’s only _Tuesday._ How is it that time has both accelerated to the point he gets dizzy and is also standing completely still? He’s so fucking tired.

 

Zayn texts him to ask him out to the pub after work. Harry’s got his three-hour seminar tonight—he’ll have left by the time Louis makes his way home. _Give me twenty min,_ Louis texts back.

 

“Y’alright, then?” Zayn asks him carefully when he ducks through the door ten minutes later.

 

“Just fine,” he grumbles. “I’m going to get a Jack and coke. Want anything?”

 

“Nah, ‘m alright,” Zayn says, gesturing at his glass, still mostly full.

 

Right. Whatever. Drinks. _God,_ everything hurts. It’s complete shit, all of it.

 

***

 

Louis looks like absolute shit. Death warmed over. He’s got deep, dark circles under his eyes and limp, dank hair and he’s carrying himself oddly, and not in the fun way Zayn sometimes teases him for. Something’s actually wrong. He’d been hoping it would go away, but it seems he’s going to have to force the issue.

 

They keep up easy conversation over their drinks, Louis guzzling faster than might otherwise be normal for a Tuesday night.

 

“You doing open mic this week, then?” Louis asks, still a little out of breath from chugging his drink. Zayn shrugs. “Come on, Zee,” Louis whines. “Woo him with your smooth moves and like. How do we describe your voice? Like, caramel’s too dark. It’s like—it’s, er—“

 

“That’s alright,” Zayn says. “I’ve got it. Dunno. Maybe. Could read some poems.”

 

“Hmm,” Louis considers. “Y’might get him with that, but he’s more of a music guy, isn’t he? And besides, aren’t your poems just songs that you refuse to admit are songs?”

 

Zayn ducks his head. “Maybe. ‘m not admitting to anything.” Louis goes in for his ribs and digs his fingers in. “Oi, get off me, you fucking menace. I’ll think about it.”

 

“That’s all I ask. Y’want to go out for a fag?”

 

Zayn frowns. “I thought you’d quit? Setting a poor example for the youth and that.”

 

An easy shrug. “Un-quit, didn’t I? C’mon.” They smoke in companionable silence outside the back door. The smoke seems to calm Louis a bit, relaxes the set of his shoulders and eventually he stops bouncing on the soles of his feet, leaning back against the brick and taking long drags with his eyes closed and head tipped back.

 

It’s probably Zayn’s best chance to ask, “So, y’want to tell me what’s going on?”

 

Louis opens his eyes to slits for a moment, cat-like, before shutting them again. “Nothing you need to worry about, dearest.”

 

“C’mon.” Zayn nudges him with an elbow. “You’re not yourself.”

 

“Felt like a change,” Louis breezes, then inhales deeply.

 

“Come off it.”

 

“Can’t imagine what you’re on about.”

 

“Seriously, Louis.” He pauses. “I’m worried about you. So are a lot of people.”

 

Louis snorts. “Flattered, but I’m fine.”

 

“No you’re not.” Louis doesn’t like to be called out flat; it always gets a rise out of him.

 

Sure enough, his brows furrow and he squints at Zayn. “I’m—it’s not anyone’s business, is it? It’s fine. I’m handling it. It’ll be fine.”

 

“You don’t seem like you’re handling it,” Zayn observes. “You sort of look like you’re imploding.”

 

Louis stubs out his cigarette against the wall and then grinds it under his shoe. “Maybe,” he concedes. “But I’ll be alright soon. It’s a temporary thing.”

 

Zayn furrows his brow. “What’s a temporary thing? Is it like…are you ill?”

 

“You could say that.”

 

“C’mon, Lou, mysterious doesn’t work for you. That’s my thing.”

 

“Psh,” Louis scoffs, “mysterious, _please. You_ are a giant fuckin’ nerd who won’t shut up about comic books given half the chance. It’s a wonder Niall fancies you.” Zayn doesn’t say anything. “I’m sorry. That was mean. And only a little true, you totally deserve Niall fancying you, Niall’s a nerd too, just different ways, you know? I’m being a prick, I’m sorry. He does fancy you, by the way, if you didn’t know.”

 

Zayn flushes a little, and smiles. “You are,” he agrees. “But I know you well enough to know it’s a cover. You can tell me anything, you know.”

 

Louis seems to consider this for a long moment, staring up at the fogged night sky. It’s started to drizzle, a bit. Zayn stubs out his own cigarette and waits.

 

“I’ll tell you,” he says. “I promise I will. Just not—not right now, okay?”

 

“Okay,” Zayn agrees. It’s as good as he’s going to get.

 

“Can we go inside, then? I’m freezing my bollocks off.” Zayn raises an eyebrow. “Oh, sod off, would you? Proverbial bollocks, fine, just get _in,_ would you?”

 

***

 

Stumbling a bit, Louis manages to make it through the door and into their flat with no major casualties. Ganymede pads up to greet him. He scratches her head, calling out a “Hi,” into the dark flat.

 

“Out in a sec,” Harry calls from the toilet. “’m just having a wee.”

 

“Have fun,” Louis yells. His jeans are digging into his belly uncomfortably, so he ambles down the hallway to change into joggers. He’s got them half-on when he spots—something on the bed. He can’t see it properly without his glasses. Upon closer inspection, it’s a soft toy mouse, blue and cuddly and small.

 

Louis’ heart clenches. On one hand, it could just be a gift, like the teddies that Louis hauls out when they’re apart for more than a few days. On the other, he _knows_ Harry, knows how much he operates in symbolic gestures. _Our baby,_ Louis remembers, _our baby our baby our baby._ He swallows against the nausea that’s creeping up his throat. He’s mostly sober, now, but he finds himself wishing he were drunk again.

 

“Hi, babe,” he hears Harry say softly from the doorway. “Missed you.” He shuffles over to Louis and ducks into a hug, enclosing Louis’ with his warm, comforting smell. He takes a long breath in and sighs.

 

All of a sudden, Harry pulls back, hands coming to rest on Louis’ shoulders. “Were you,” he starts, and the little line between his brows deepens. “Have you been drinking?”

 

It’s really no use denying it. He can smell the booze on himself. “Went to Niall’s with Zayn after work,” he says.

 

“Oh.” Harry’s _dying_ to say something, he can tell, the way he opens and closes his wide pink mouth, the corners turned down.

 

Louis sighs. “If you’ve got something to say, out with it. I’d rather not have to try and read your mind.”

 

Harry purses his lips. “You know—like, you know that’s not good? Right? For, um.”

 

Louis didn’t really want to talk about the parasite currently hanging around in his abdomen—he refuses to call it anything else—but that seems to be what’s on the agenda, and he’s not in the mood to deal with Harry sulking but refusing to _admit_ he’s sulking. “For the fetus, yes, I’m aware. Sorry.”

 

“Okay,” Harry says, looking lost for words. “D’you—like, we should um.” His eyes dart to the soft toy on Louis’ pillow. “I know it’s silly, I just saw it, and, well.” He gives a sheepish shrug. “Dunno.”

 

“Harry—“

 

“I just,” Harry starts. “I’m—I like, I don’t really know where your head is at, and like, I was thinking about it, and I think we should um. Seriously consider it.”

 

“Consider it.” Louis’ tone is a little flat, but Harry goes ahead.

 

“I mean, I know we said a few more years, ‘til I’ve got my Ph.D and a job and everything, but like, we could also, um, do it now? I suppose? I mean.”

 

Louis seems to carefully contemplate his next words. “I’m not out at work, Harry,” he says eventually.

 

Harry frowns. “I know that. What—“

 

“So it’s not as if I can show up preggers and expect people to what, not talk about it? Christ, I could get sacked, there’s no protections or anything. ‘m not very well just going to be able to ask for maternity leave, am I?”

 

The line between Harry’s brows deepens even further. “But like, you could take, like, some time off, couldn’t you?”

 

Louis snorts. “Nine months worth? Hardly.”

 

“Well, it’d only be—what, seven?”

 

“Plus time for the newborn,” Louis adds.

 

“I can help with that.”

 

“Someone would have to be home all the time. I don’t think we could swing that. Besides, I can’t take off work for that long, I already said.”

 

“But, like, we could work it out. I mean, we’ve both got some savings, and I’m sure my mum and Robin would—“

 

“Absolutely not,” Louis seethes. “ _No._ I’m not taking money from your family, get that idea right out of your head.”

 

Harry holds his hands up, palms out. “It was just a suggestion.” There’s a bite of frustration to his tone. Louis knows, rationally, he’s being _difficult,_ and he still hasn’t said what he’s really thinking, which is _get this fucking thing out of me before I fucking kill myself._ He can’t just say that, though. Harry won't take it well.

 

“It’s not on the table. Besides, we’d need the savings for the actual baby, not just me taking a holiday. Which, by the way, I’m also not out to most people we know.”

 

“I can explain,” Harry says. “I’d make sure no one was rude to you.”

 

Louis rolls his eyes. “Fat fucking chance, that. People still look at me all funny on the bus anyway sometimes, how d’you think they’d do if I were eight months pregnant on top of being all—“ he gestures at his body. “—y’know.”

 

“We could figure it out,” Harry says. “I dunno, I’d stay close to you or—“

 

“Fantastic,” Louis spits. “So I’d be under house arrest, more or less. Stuck here unless you’re there to supervise me and make sure no one looks at me wrong. Which, by the way, you can’t do.”

 

Harry looks like he’s going to cry. “That’s not what I _meant,_ Lou, I just—“

 

“You just,” he echoes back, and then pauses and takes several deep breaths in and out. “Look, I don’t really want to talk about this anymore. Can you just like…give me some space? I mean,” he says, and winces, “Don’t, like, ignore me, please?” His tone goes small and vulnerable, such a stark contrast to a few minutes ago. “I’m—I’m having kind of a hard time, and I kind of. I dunno.” He blinks back a few tears that rise unbidden. “I want my mum,” he admits, painful like it’s being wrenched out from deep within him.

 

“Oh, baby,” Harry says, and wraps Louis up tight, shushing and rocking him back and forth. “Of course, of course. It’s going to be all right. Maybe your mum can come visit?”

 

Louis shakes his head. “Don’t want her to go to the trouble,” he says thickly. “’m just being stupid. The girls need her. And Ernest,” he adds.

 

“I’m sure she wouldn’t mind, Lou. You’re her baby, she loves you.”

 

Louis sniffles a little and wipes at his eyes like he can grind the tears out of them. “I know. She offered, I just. Feel weak, you know. Not to be able to handle myself.”

 

“I know.” Harry does, is the thing. He’s seen Louis’ attempts to handle himself go six kinds of awry and self-destructive. “I love you.”

 

“Love you too.” Louis tries to burrow further into Harry’s warmth. “Can—“ he pauses. “Would you…could I be little spoon? Just tonight.”

 

“Of course.” They fall quite quickly into bed, the room plunged into darkness except for the nightlight in the corner (Harry’s, although Louis claims he’d bought it for himself. He’d just been trying to make Harry feel better about wanting a nightlight.) Harry’s arm drapes over him, warm and solid and heavy. Louis feels himself sinking into the mattress and lets out a long sigh. Tomorrow. He’ll figure this out tomorrow.

 

Harry’s big hand comes up to pet at his belly, and he freezes, suddenly stiff as a board. The hand moves away. “Sorry,” Harry murmurs into his shoulder.

 

“No, it’s alright,” Louis whispers. “’m just being weird, I’m sorry. ‘m a dick.”

 

“You’re okay,” Harry says. “You’re okay. We’re okay. Everything’s going to be alright.” The soft, low thrum of his voice murmuring the same things over and over again, reassurances that get less and less coherent, lull Louis into a fitful sleep.

 

***

 

_Dinner soon? My treat, you pick the place. xx_

 

It really shouldn’t have taken Zayn this long to send this text, but oh well. Niall hadn’t been able to stop raving about Zayn’s open mic set for close to an hour after it was over, completely ignoring Harry’s very bizarre brand of stand up he insists is _performance art._ Zayn’s very flattered. Niall thinks Harry is _hilarious._

 

He gets a response almost immediately after hitting send. _Yessssssssss!! fab!! pick you up 7pm tmrw?_

 

Zayn really should be working on his diss, then. No one’s ever picked him up for a date before. Not that—fuck it, it’s a date, not that Zayn will say that before Niall does. He grins and sends back a thumbs up emoji. And a heart, before he can think better of it.

 

***

 

Harry kind of expects things to get better, for Louis to start opening up more, for things between them to get less tense and distant. They do, in some ways. There are a lot of good moments; there always have been, with them, even when things were really difficult. It’s part of why they work. They have fun together, make each other laugh. Louis laughs uproariously throughout Harry’s open mic set and jumps on his back afterward. They stumble home, and they’d probably fuck if they weren’t _quite_ so drunk. Harry sprawls out like a starfish instead, Louis pinned under one of his arms and legs.

 

The next morning, he barely says anything; short, curt answers to Harry’s careful questions and pursed lips at all his suggestions for what they might do today. He glares at the Telegraph as if it’s personally wronged him and drinks half a pot of coffee by himself. Louis doesn’t even _like_ coffee. When Harry tries to jokingly point that out, he gets his head bit off before they lapse back into silence, Ganymede jumping up on the table to steal bits of bacon. She’s seemed a little tense, too, but maybe he’s projecting.

 

They end up going to the cinema on their date night. Harry lets Louis pick in what he hopes is a peace offering, even though he’s not sure what he’s _done,_ and Louis bitches about everything that was wrong with the film on the way home while Harry nods and makes noises of agreement. He’d quite liked it, himself.

 

Louis rolls his eyes when he says as much. Harry blinks back tears.

 

“So,” he eventually says, when they’re sat next to each other on the bed, fiddling with their phones. Louis’ got his glasses perched at the end of his nose. Harry itches to kiss the tip, but he doesn’t know how welcome that would be. Louis seems at once desperate to be touched, lately, and completely repulsed by it. Harry can’t keep up. “You done being mean, then?” It’s passive aggressive, and Louis _hates_ passive aggression, but Harry’s exhausted and wants to cry and he really, really wants Louis to admit he’s being a dick and be nice to him.

 

Louis spares him a glance before focusing back in on his game of Candy Crush. “Sorry,” he says flatly. “This is part of the package.”

 

“What package?” It’s a struggle to keep his voice steady.

 

Louis waves a hand at his midsection. “The knocking up your boyfriend package. Mood swings and that.”

 

It’s such a non-apology that Harry wants to scream. “So is you getting smashed with Zayn—he doesn’t know, does he?—part of the package, then, too? Cos I seem to recall that’s not something you’re supposed to do when you’re carrying a _baby._ ” His voice cracks, to his huge embarrassment. “Grow up, Louis.” It’s a low blow, but Louis’ been dealing in low blows on and off for _weeks._

 

Louis blinks hard, rapidly, and Harry can tell he’s trying his hardest to keep his voice firm and steady. “I think,” he says, and then clears his throat, saying firmly, “I think I’m going to take the sofa tonight.”

 

“No,” Harry says automatically.

 

“You can’t—“

 

“I just meant,” Harry says, swallowing at the glint in Louis’ eyes before continuing, “I meant I’ll take it, you can have the bed.”

 

Harry can practically see the way Louis’ brain is whirring, deciding whether or not to fight for the sake of it, to lash out at Harry for treating him like he’s fragile, even though he _is_ right now and anyone with eyes can see as much. Instead, he visibly deflates, shakes his head and says, “Okay.”

 

Harry cries himself to sleep and wakes up unable to turn his neck more than a few degrees to the right. He snaps at several of his students when they ask repetitive questions in his afternoon lecture, and Louis doesn’t answer any of the texts he sends him, not even the pictures of kittens.

 

Harry imagines the future they’d talked about slipping through his fingers, desperately crossing his hands one under the other to try and catch it, the way he separates eggs. When he comes out of the loo at the Pret he sees a young mother feeding grapes to her baby at the table next to his, and he turns on his heel and falls hard on his knees as he retches into the toilet, his shoulders heaving, not fighting the tears streaming down his face.

 

***

 

Niall’s choice for their second—second time hanging out, just the two of them—is apparently a…posh chippie. It’s just opened and it’s got all this nonsense on the menu about using _craft beers_ for its batter and _locally sourced potatoes_ and _ethically caught fish._ Zayn suppresses his eye roll.

 

“Sorry,” Niall says after a minute. “This place is a bit up its own arse, I’d never been, just heard it was good.” He shrugs a little. “Was trying to impress you, I suppose?”

 

“Impress me?” Zayn must have heard that wrong.

 

Niall flushes beet red and ducks his head, one hand coming up so he can chew on his thumbnail. “Oh. Oh, nevermind, I mean—it was stupid of me, I sort of thought this was, er, a date.”

 

Zayn blinks. “A date,” he echoes, sounding shaky and dumb to his own ears.

 

Niall kind of looks like he wants to melt into the floor. It’s such a contrast from his bright, sunshine-y self that Zayn feels suddenly terribly guilty. “Nevermind, then. Stupid of me, sorry.”

 

“No,” Zayn says. “No, wait, er. I mean. I kind of. Hoped, I just didn’t want to assume—“

 

“Makes an arse out of you and me, so it does,” Niall offers.

 

“Right, didn’t want to, erm. I’m not, like. Good at—“ he waves a hand around, hoping the gesture encompasses _dating people and having long-term relationships and acting on my feelings and saying what I’m actually thinking and not running the next morning._ “—this,” is what he finishes with, somewhat lamely.

 

Niall offers the hint of a grin. “’s alright, mate, neither am I. Obviously, since I dragged you to the hipster chippie.”

 

“It’s okay,” Zayn says. “I like—er. I mean. I like being with you?” He’s embarrassed at how it sounds like a question, but Niall doesn’t call him out on it.

 

Instead, he just says, “Me too,” quietly and warmly and he reaches, slow as anything, for Zayn’s hand across the table. His palm is warm and a little sweaty, but Zayn finds he doesn’t mind, doesn’t snatch his hand back and away.

 

After a moment, they both collapse into giggles.

 

“Alright then,” Niall says. “So we’ve established I like you and you like me and we’re both rubbish at saying so. For the record, I’ve liked you since I met you.”

 

Zayn twitches. “Um. Me too?”

 

“Brilliant.” A waitress sidles over to their table.

 

“Youse gettin’?” she asks. Just hipster, then, not posh. Zayn laughs.

 

***

 

The meal had actually been quite good despite its pretentious atmosphere, and after a moment’s hesitation Zayn asks Niall if he’d like to come back to his for a drink. It’s the kind of thing he knows how to do—Niall likes him, so this is the next logical step. He ignores the anxiety building in his gut and fusses with his hair, ignores the way his hand shakes when he pours (cheap, Asda) wine into two cups.

 

“No proper wine glasses,” he apologizes.

 

“You’re alright,” Niall says. “’m not fancy.”

 

They’re a few inches apart, on Zayn’s sofa, surrounded by the mess Zayn had tried desperately to clean up for the two minutes he’d made Niall stand outside the door. He’s pretty sure everything _actually_ embarrassing is stashed, but he’s not a clean person, and he flushes.

 

“Hey,” Niall says. “You alright?”

 

“Fine,” Zayn says, and then bites his lip. “C’mere,” he decides, shifting closer to Niall until they’re touching, pressed up against one another. Niall’s eyes are really, really blue, and there’s a cute blush to his cheeks. Zayn’s not really been into Irish boys, but what he finds unattractive in men who hit on him in clubs is really, really lovely on Niall. He leans in a bit, hoping he’ll get the message.

 

Niall stays where he is, though, and brushes a bit of Zayn’s hair back. Confused, Zayn looks at him. He’d thought…nevermind. Maybe Niall doesn’t really like him like that, even though he’d just said he did not two hours ago.

 

He’s expecting to be let down easy, but Niall just asks, “Can I kiss you?”

 

Mutely, Zayn nods. No one’s asked before, and he’s not sure what it means that Niall does, but then their lips are touching, gentle, hesitant, and that’s all he can think about, just the soft, dry press of their mouths, the feeling of Niall huffing air through his nose, a gentle hand in Zayn’s hair, not holding, just touching. Zayn moves one of his hands to rest on the back of Niall’s neck and gets a soft noise in reward, encouraging him to flick his tongue out just a bit to kitten-lick at the seam of Niall’s mouth. Another soft noise, and Niall does the same, and—most of the kissing Zayn’s done has been filthy and cursory, just something he had to do before the main event, but this is. Nice.

 

It gets a bit sloppy after a few minutes, heavy breathing and little bites, Zayn pulling off once to kiss down Niall’s neck, which earns him a tiny moan.

 

“Christ,” Niall says, sounding dazed. Zayn takes that as a signal to get the show on the road properly, and reaches for the waistband of Niall’s jeans.

 

“Wait, wait,” Niall says, and he freezes. He’s done something wrong but he’s not sure what. “Hey.” A soft brush of fingers under his chin guides him to look up at Niall’s eyes, blown out but still blue, still kind. His brow is furrowed a bit, teeth pulling at one of his pink, kiss-bitten lips. “Er—you don’t have to. I mean. I’d kind of…” he trails off. “Is that…are you okay with that?”

 

Zayn furrows his brow. Of course he’s okay with that. Niall’s the one who’d stopped him. “Are you?” he asks, figuring that maybe that’s what this is about.

 

Niall lets out a high, nervous giggle. “Oh, yeah, I’m grand. Just, er. Checking. You know. Had a crush on you for going on two years, now, didn’t want to, er, ruin things by moving too fast.”

 

Zayn grins at him. He’s good at this part, making other people feel good. He gets Niall’s flies open in a few quick moves, smiling against his denim-clad thigh at the “ _Oh, fuck,”_ he gets in reward.

 

***

 

Niall doesn’t ask to stay the night, and Zayn doesn’t know how to tell him he wants him to. He doesn’t like sleepovers, normally, but something in him doesn’t like the thought of sleeping in an empty bed tonight. It’s silliness, and he shakes his head. Niall thinks he’s good-looking and maybe likes him a little, too, but there’s no need to try and make it more than that.

 

Niall kisses him goodbye, though, soft and sweet again like they hadn’t just been swearing into each other’s mouths not half an hour ago. “This was fun,” he says. “We should do it again, sometime.” Zayn’s heart only sinks a little at the words. _Fun._ That’s all this is. That’s what he’s good at.

 

He gets a text right as he’s about to fall asleep, though, and blearily reaches for his phone.

 

 _Niall: this could be us but u have to work tmrw :(_ [ _http://ak-hdl.buzzfed.com/static/2014-02/enhanced/webdr02/5/15/enhanced-buzz-23518-1391633711-8.jpg_ ](http://ak-hdl.buzzfed.com/static/2014-02/enhanced/webdr02/5/15/enhanced-buzz-23518-1391633711-8.jpg)

 

It’s confusing, and Zayn isn’t even going to bother trying to decode it. _Fun,_ he reminds himself, face buried in the pillow. _Fun._

 

***

 

Louis opens the door as quietly as he can one day when he gets back from rehearsal, and he hears Harry puttering about the kitchen, singing to himself while something plays in the background. It takes him a moment to realize what he’s listening to.

 

“There was a time when you let me know what’s really going on below,” he croons, voice a little soft and cracked, “But now you never show it to me, do you?” He trails off with a sound that might be a sob. Louis shuts the door and turns right back around.

 

He comes back home after eleven after working on the set for close to four hours with a bottle of whisky he’d bought at the off-license and could well be sacked for bringing into school. Harry’s already asleep and he doesn’t stir when Louis slides under the covers with him, perched on the edge of the bed as far as possible from the lump of Harry’s body.

 

***

 

They get dressed together on Friday—Harry has an early class—but in silence. Louis steals Harry’s sweater, which is a bit heartening, but he struggles getting into his jeans and after a few minutes of jumping and wriggling he collapses heavily onto the floor and grips his stomach with both hands. “I fucking hate you,” he grinds out, glaring at his belly.

 

“Don’t say that,” Harry says, wounded. He understands—well, he sympathizes with—Louis’ frustration at his body changing, but that’s their _baby._

 

“I’ll say what I bloody well please, won’t I?” Louis snaps, and then deflates a little. “Sorry. Fucking hormones.”

 

Harry pushes it, which is a mistake. “I just don’t understand why you’re being so _cruel,_ Louis. You love babies.”

 

“Fetus,” Louis corrects sharply. “It’s a fetus, Harry. Might not even be that, I’m not sure. Maybe it’s an embryo. I think it’s not a fetus ‘til the second trimester.”

 

Harry slams his hand on the wardrobe, and Louis jumps. He hates himself, a bit, but he’s so _upset._ “Why do you keep calling it that?”

 

“Because that’s what it is, Harry, it’s a fucking clump of cells, it’s not a _baby_.” His fingers shake as he reaches into his jacket pocket for his pack of Marlboros, and Harry sees red.

 

He doesn’t even really register what’s happening as he sees his own hand come up and swing round to knock the pack and the lighter out of Louis’ grip. He sees the objects fall to the ground almost in slow motion. They don’t make any noise as they fall on the carpet, but Harry might be able to feel the impact.

 

Louis blinks at him for a long time. Harry wouldn’t be able to tell he’s fighting tears if he didn’t know him so well, but he does, and he wants more than anything to hold him close until he stops looking like that, small and scared. And then all of a sudden he squares his shoulders and his gaze is _burning,_ Harry swears it’s going to burn a hole in him, to have Louis looking at him like that, and he hates that even more, hates that he’s put this look on Louis’ face.

 

“Lou,” he chokes, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—“

 

Louis springs into motion, snatching up his coat and the cigarettes and his lighter, his hands trembling violently as he sticks one in his mouth and lights it, failing the first few times.

 

“Louis, that’s—I’m sorry, but I was just scared, that’s bad for the baby.”

 

“I don’t _care_ ,” Louis yells, like Harry’s only heard him do a few times. He looks small, still, scared, but his voice is venomous. “I don’t care what’s bad for the fucking fetus, and if that makes me evil it _does,_ okay, I can’t—you can judge me, you can leave me, I don’t care. I’m fucking—fuck.” And then he’s crying, just as suddenly as he was yelling, and he sucks on the cigarette like it might make him stop.

 

“Baby,” Harry says, because he’s upset and he’s afraid and he’s _angry_ at Louis but he hates to watch him cry. He’s confused.

 

“Don’t,” Louis says, visibly trying to compose himself. He inhales and coughs and inhales again, his eyes closed. His hands come up to wipe furiously at his cheeks. “I’m gonna. I’m gonna go. I’ve got an appointment in Manchester. I’m gonna go stay with Liam. I’ll get the earlier ferry, it’s fine. I’ll see you on Monday.”

 

Harry is completely lost. “Appointment—Lou, what the fuck—“

 

Louis doesn’t say anything before he slams the door in Harry’s face.

 

***

Harry’s been fighting tears for hours when he gets to Zayn’s office—or, well, Zayn’s shared office, where he’s holding office hours in fifteen minutes, and Harry knows how rude it is but he can’t be arsed to care, not really, not when Louis is gone and Harry’s half sure he’s losing him for good and he doesn’t _understand._ Zayn _gets_ Louis in a way that no one else does, and he’s Harry’s best hope at fixing this, probably. It _aches,_ the knowledge that Louis might not come back to him. He doesn’t know where it all went wrong.

 

Two hot tears leak down his cheeks, and he wipes furiously at both eyes with the back of his hand, his skin feeling raw already. He hasn’t let himself _cry-_ cry, not really, because that would make it final. He’s not going to mourn this, any of it, not yet. He raps on the wood five, six times. Zayn gives a kind of grunt that he knows means _come in_ and he does, practically falling into the little chair across from the shared desk.

 

If Zayn’s surprised, he doesn’t show it beyond a slight arch to his eyebrows and a barely perceptible tightening of his mouth.

 

“Can I help you?” he says, coolly. Harry suddenly wants very desperately to sob. Everything’s fucked and he doesn’t know how to fix it.

 

“He’s gone.”

 

“I know, he phoned me,” Zayn says. “Can I help you?”

 

Harry whimpers. “Zee, please, please, I know you’re mad at me, I’m sorry. I just need to fix this, I need him to let me fix this, I don’t understand.” His voice breaks at the end and he shoves the heels of both palms hard into his eyes. It’s unbearably hot behind them. His whole body feels wracked with tremors, vibrating slightly. When he looks up, Zayn’s staring at him with his thoughtful face, eyes narrowing and widening rapidly.

 

“Please, Zayn. I just don’t want to lose him, I’ve been trying so _hard—“_

 

“No, wait.” Zayn holds up one finger. “Shut the fuck up. Listen to me, right now, because I’m not going to say any of this again, and I probably shouldn’t say it at all, except that I’ve always thought you and Louis were good for each other, and I like you, Harry, I really do. You’re one of my best friends, but he’s my _best friend_ , and I would kill for him.”

 

Harry nods but doesn’t say anything. He would do the same. Zayn’s visibly trying to figure out exactly what to say, and he gives him time.

 

“I’ve been trying to let him handle his own business,” Zayn eventually starts, “because he hates when people treat him like he can’t. You know that. He doesn’t like when people, especially people he cares about, treat him like he’s weak.” Harry nods again. He knows.

 

“You and I both know he’s not good at letting people take care of him, but there’s a difference between letting people he trusts care for him and those people treating him like he can’t make decisions for himself.” Zayn finishes the statement with a pointed glare, and Harry flushes. He’s about to argue, but something in the glint of Zayn’s eyes, the hard set of his mouth, the tick of his jaw say he shouldn’t.

 

“You’ve been an arse, Harry. Flat-out. I stayed out of it ‘cos he wouldn’t tell me what was going on until he called me at half seven this morning crying like I’ve hardly ever heard him. He was going on and on about how _sorry_ he was, how _guilty_ he felt that he couldn’t give you what you wanted. And that’s on you, mate. I know you want kids, and I know you see this as a blessing, or whatever, but it doesn’t really matter how you see it when it’s his body and his health and his sanity on the line. You’re not going to get him to change his mind by wanting it or by making him feel guilty for not wanting it.”

 

Harry’s going to cry again. “I thought we wanted the same thing,” he says, wretchedly, head hung.

 

Something about Zayn’s tone softens a little bit. “I get where you’re coming from. Or, well. As well as I can. You do want the same things, you just want them different ways. Louis wants kids, Haz, you know that.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Did you think he was going to want to carry them?”

 

“No, not really—I mean, I assumed we would, er, use a surrogate, we talked about it, like, we didn’t think he could even _get_ pregnant. That’s why I was so excited. I thought he would be, too.” They’d looked at freezing some of Louis’ eggs before he’d gone on hormones, the first time, but the process was expensive and invasive and counterproductive—Louis would have had to put so much estrogen into his body when the point was to get it out. He hadn’t thought a child that was biologically _theirs_ was in the realm of possibility.

 

Zayn gives him a long, considering look. “I know. It’s not a bad thing that you were excited, but you like—you went there immediately, and you didn’t make any space for his feelings, and he reacted. And the more you didn’t understand, the less he wanted to talk to you. I’m not saying he was perfect and you’re awful, ‘cos he could’ve communicated with you better, probably, and he expects you to read his mind sometimes, so it just like—feels like even more of a betrayal to him when you can’t, or when you assume he’s thinking the exact opposite of what he is.”

 

“I didn’t assume—“

 

“You did. D’you remember what he was like when you met him?”

 

“Yeah.” Harry does—all bright and loud and the center of every room, of everyone’s attention. Harry had been in love with him almost before they’d even kissed.

 

“Then you know he’s changed. For the better, mind. He’s let himself be vulnerable with you, because you’ve treated him right. He’s known for years that you love him for him. He’s tried all his life to make people love him by being what he thinks they want.”

 

“I know.” Harry recalls every middle of the night conversation where Louis would confess, in fits and starts, how much he’d hated himself throughout his teens, when he was closeted and when he was trying to be himself, so afraid people wouldn’t love him, so devastated when they didn’t. Harry’d kissed his knuckles and his cheeks and his lips and told him he’d love him no matter what, no matter who he was. It had all been very teenaged and soppy, but he’d meant it. He still means it. “I love him. I don’t want to make him be anything different.”

 

“But you do want him to have this baby.” Zayn’s tone is flat. It’s not a question.

 

Mutely, Harry nods. He sees where this is going, kind of, and feels a shameful flush creeping over his cheeks.

 

“That’s not loving him as he is. That’s wanting to change him, wanting him to do something that’ll hurt him. Has hurt him. Haz, it’s killing him, you must’ve noticed.”

 

“I don’t want to change him.” He doesn’t. He really, really doesn’t. Louis is his favorite person in the world.

 

“Alright, then. I believe you. But that’s not how you’ve been treating him, and that’s why he’s left. That’s what you wanted to know, right?”

 

“I don’t want him to go.” Tears are leaking out of Harry’s eyes now, but he’s making no effort to stop them. One corner of Zayn’s mouth quirks up, just for a moment. “I love him.”

 

“I know. And I do think you’re good for him, and I know he loves you. _I_ love you, but if you stop being good for him, if you treat him like everyone else who made him think he wasn’t great being exactly who he is, if you fuck him up like that, he’s not gonna be okay, not if you aren’t there for him in this, and I can’t forgive you. You feel me?” Zayn’s all bark and no bite, Harry’s found over the years, but he gets what he’s getting at. Zayn’s censure wouldn’t even matter much, not really. Harry would never forgive himself.

 

His mind is whirring and he’s itching, suddenly, with the need to _do_ something, to get out of here. “I feel you.”

 

“Right. Do you need something else, or are you going to get out of my office? I have students coming in in a bit. Don’t need you snotting all over them.” He gives him a little smile, then, fondness pinching at the corners of his eyes. Harry gives him a watery one back.

 

“No, no. I’m gonna. I’m gonna go.” He stands on wobbling legs and crosses the room, almost as if being pulled forward on an invisible string. He knows what he needs to do, now.

 

Just as he’s stepping out the door, he remembers, and whirls around.

 

“Zayn?”

 

His friend looks up from his computer. “Yeah?”

 

“Could you look after Ganymede for a couple of days? Maybe? I’ll text you.”

 

Zayn smiles properly, then. “Sure thing, H. Take as long as you both need.”

 

“I love you.”

 

“Love you too, idiot.”

 

Harry’s out the door almost before he can hear it.

 

***

 

A deafening chorus of barking greets Louis at Liam’s door. It sets him on edge, a bit. He fiddles with the zipper on his bag.

 

“Sorry, sorry,” he hears from a little ways behind him. “ _Shhhhh,_ shut up, you lot, it’s just Louis, c’mon _._ ” Liam nudges past him and opens the door a few inches, giving Louis a sheepish smile. He has to half-shout over the cacophany. “Sorry. They do this every time the post comes, or, like, the doorbell rings, even if it’s on the telly. Madness.”

 

“’s alright.”

 

Liam’s brow furrows. “Are you okay?” He hadn’t asked on the drive here, let Louis lean against the cool window and focused on the road and singing along with the radio. Louis was kind of hoping he’d escape the concerned questions all weekend, but it seems he’s out of luck.

 

“I mean,” Louis starts. He’d thought he’d cried it all out on the ferry (in the toilet, he doesn’t _do_ public crying) but the lump in his throat is rising again and his eyes feel hot and sore. “Sorry, I’m. Bit of a mess, really.”

 

“That’s alright,” Liam says, cheerful as ever. One of the things Louis loves most about Liam is his ability to take things in stride, think on his feet. He’s the most pragmatic person Louis knows. He’s so grateful for him, right now. “Come on in, then, we’ve got you set up in the spare room.”

 

“Hi Louis,” he hears Sophia call from upstairs. Liam’s new house has an _upstairs,_ apparently. It’s very nice all around, actually, cozy and lived-in despite the boxes still piled in the corners. There’s tons of photos on the walls and dog toys scattered all around. Plus the four large dogs circling ‘round his legs, not barking anymore but sniffing at his hands, sussing him out. Louis finds himself desperately missing Ganymede, for a moment.

 

“Hi,” he calls back. “You have a lovely home.” That’s something people say, right?

 

“Thanks,” Liam says. “Bit of a madhouse, really.” One of the dogs starts poking at Louis’ bag. “Oi, quit that,” Liam snaps. “Sorry. He’s looking for the squeaker. Does it to people, too.” He’s grinning goofily, eyes crinkling. He’s the happiest Louis’ ever seen him, and right now, that feels suffocating. Louis is a terrible person.

 

“Could I use the loo?” he asks. He just needs a moment to himself.

 

Liam points. “Right over there. Can I take your bag?” Louis nods and practically runs into the small half-bath, shutting and locking the door. His hands feel numb. That’s not normal, is it?

 

Right. Pulling himself together. He washes his hands with cold water— _that_ he can feel—and then splashes himself across the face twice. In the mirror, his reflection looks like absolute shit, haggard and red-eyed. “Right,” he says. “You’re fine. You just have to get through this weekend.” _And maybe the rest of your life,_ his brain adds, _because there’s no way Harry’s still going to love you._ He shakes his head. He’s just got to get through this weekend. Then he can think about everything else.

 

The thing is—he really, really wishes Harry were here. The whole plan had been for him to _not,_ for Louis to have a full day and a bit to recover and get himself normal so that Harry would be none the wiser when he came home, but that had all gone to shit, and now he wants Harry here. He can’t ask for that, though. Harry might hate him, and that makes him feel cold, all of a sudden, like there are shards of ice in his chest. _Stop that,_ he thinks. _Just get through tonight. One hour at a time._

 

A soft knock at the door startles him out of his thoughts. “You alright in there?” Sophia asks. Liam’s probably told her why he’s here; he’s never kept secrets well. Louis doesn’t really know Sophia, so it shouldn’t _really_ bother him, but his skin still crawls thinking about it.

 

“Sorry,” he says. “I’ll be out in a tick.”

 

He splashes his face with water once more for good measure before he opens the door. Blessedly, neither Liam nor Sophia are waiting for him on the other side, but one of the dogs is, and immediately shoves its nose between Louis’ legs and sighs.

 

He scratches its head for lack of anything else to do. It’s soft, short and fuzzy like Liam’s head after he’d shaved it when he and Danielle broke up. “Hi there,” he tells the being still wedged between his legs. “Nice to meet you too.”

 

“Sorry, sorry.” Liam scrambles over to pull it away by the collar. “No manners, this one. There’s dinner in the kitchen, if you want. Spag bol and salad.” He nods toward the kitchen. “How long is it before your, er, procedure that you’re not meant to eat? I think it was like, twelve hours when I had my tonsils out.”

 

“Just not s’posed to eat after I wake up tomorrow, I think.” He’s not sure he can eat now, though. Maybe he should’ve lied.

 

“Oh, that’s alright, then. C’mon in here, then, you don’t even have to eat the salad.”

 

“Thanks mum,” Louis simpers, getting a cuff ‘round the ear in retaliation. Liam seems to have picked up on Louis’ desire for things to seem normal, and he’s grateful he didn’t have to say it himself.

 

He’s really not hungry, stomach rolling and tying itself in knots, but he takes some spaghetti to be polite and sits with Liam and Sophia at their little table. They have an easy sort of back-and-forth, and again Louis is hit with a pang of _I wish Harry were here._ He’s much quieter than he normally is with Liam—he’d prided himself on being the one to coax Liam out of his quiet, nervous shell—but they don’t remark on it. His hand keeps reaching for his phone out of habit before he remembers he’d switched it off on the ferry so he wouldn’t go crazy waiting for Harry to text him. _Later,_ he thinks, _We’ll deal with that later. Get through this dinner, then tonight, then this weekend._

 

Sudden silence alerts him to the couple next to him both looking at him expectantly. “Sorry,” he says. “Spaced out for a mo. What?”

 

“Soph was just asking if you and Harry had set a wedding date, yet,” Liam says gently.

 

Louis’ heart lodges in his throat, his fingers moving automatically to the skin-warm ring of metal in his pocket, resting against his thigh. Harry had taken his rings off to do the washing up the night before they’d fought, and when Louis had snuck back in a few minutes after storming out they’d still been on the counter. Without thinking, Louis had picked up the ring he’d given Harry last year—a silver claddagh, weighty and well-made, with an inscription inside the band. _Always in my heart._ He probably shouldn’t have taken it, but. Well. There’s lots of things he shouldn’t have done.

 

“No,” he says, after a long moment, exhaling shakily and forcing himself to let go of the ring. _Not right now. Later._ “We’d agreed not to until he was out of school, settled and that.”

 

“That’s probably smart,” Sophia offers. “You only get the one wedding, don’t you? Best do it when you’ve got the means to do it right.”

 

“Right,” Louis says. He and Harry had almost gotten married in Las Vegas a couple of years ago, right after Harry had graduated uni and they’d spent an indulgent month traveling ‘round the States. They were drunk off their arses, but Louis had woken the next morning and thought _I wouldn’t have regretted it._

 

“Your mum’s wedding was beautiful,” Liam says. “Outdoor ceremonies are really lovely, I think.”

 

“Mmm, in the summer especially,” Sophia agrees. “So you could have the whole thing outdoors, with the tents and all. Dogs, if you have them.”

 

Liam grins, and they begin to chatter back and forth about _hypothetical_ color schemes and _hypothetical_ cake flavors and _hypothetical_ vows, and normally Louis would be right in there—he loves weddings, sue him—but it’s making him feel a little ill. He twirls his spaghetti over and over but none of it makes it to his mouth. Liam’s probably going to give him a concerned look at some point. Oh well.

 

He offers to collect plates so as to not draw attention to his half-full one. Liam and Sophia are wrapped up in one another, and he thinks he might be able to sneak out for a smoke without causing a fuss. His hands are shaking.

 

“Hey, Lou, let’s get you set up, yeah?” Liam says just as he’s inching towards the door. “You’re probably knackered.” He’s not, really, too anxious for any other feeling to really get in there, but he nods.

 

Liam and Sophia’s spare room adjoins their bedroom via a small bathroom, which nixes Louis’ “lying face-down in the bathtub” plan. It also means that when they go to bed after Louis’ been lying on the fold-out sofa for close to an hour with sleep seeming less and less likely, he can hear them talking if he listens hard. It’s mostly innocuous, talking to their dogs in strange voices and talking about work, but, as Louis’ been dreading, the conversation turns toward him.

 

“Is he okay?” Sophia asks. “I mean, I’ve only met him the once, but he seems…different.”

 

“I mean,” Liam starts, “No, I suppose. Like, he’s not always like when you met him—he’s not like, actually this hyperactive flamboyant whatever all the time, he’s pretty sensitive actually, but uh. He’s having a hard time with this, I think. Yeah.”

 

“Hmmmm,” she says. “I can’t imagine.”

 

“He’s been through a lot.” Liam’s voice is soft, quiet. Louis has to strain to hear him. “I don’t—like, I mean, I know I explained about him, er, being transgender and stuff before you met, but like. He was quite messed up, for a long time. Nearly died when we were about 15 or so, starved himself almost to death. He had to stay behind a year in school ‘cos he missed so much being in hospital.”

 

“Oh my God,” Sophia says. “The poor thing.” Liam shouldn’t be sharing this stuff with Sophia. It’s private. Louis kind of wants to scream. It’s not even that either of them are being _bad_ about it, at least not intentionally, but the very fact that they’re in there discussing Louis’ fuck-ups rankles him. Still, he can’t very well interrupt them before he hears the whole discussion. His masochist streak wouldn’t stand for it.

 

“Yeah, it was rough. He relapsed again in uni, and then once after—when he and Harry weren’t living together, when he’d first moved to Ireland. I wasn’t around, then, obviously, but from what I can tell it was bad. He’s been alright, recently, I think. I mean, he doesn’t say when he’s having trouble, which is what’s so frustrating, like, you can ask him straightforwardly if he’s eating alright and he’ll lie and you can’t really tell the difference because he’s a good liar, but Harry says he’s been alright for a while now, so.”

 

“That’s good.”

 

“Yeah,” Liam agrees. “Yeah. I dunno, I hope this hasn’t set him off.”

 

“Mmm. One of my mates from school had her baby last year and gained a bunch of weight and she’s having trouble with it, keeps going on and on on facebook about what diets she’s trying and her measurements and all. It’s sad.”

 

“Yeah, plus, like, so much of that stuff for him came from, like, his body not matching up, you know?”

 

“Hmmm. I suppose that makes sense.”

 

“I mean, like, he’s never said so, but that’s what I think.” Liam can take his theories about Louis’ body and shove them up his arse. Nevermind that he might be a little bit right. Heat’s building behind Louis’ eyes, and his stupid, traitorous brain starts up again with the _I wish Harry were here._ “Anyway, hopefully he’ll go back to, er, normal, I suppose, after the, er. Procedure.”

 

Sophia pauses. “Harry knows?”

 

“I dunno. I kept telling him to tell him, but if he’s not here, I s’pose not.”

 

“That’s a bit messed up, isn’t it? I mean, it’s his baby too.” A few hot, angry tears do slip out at that despite Louis’ trying to hold them back, and he furiously wipes at his cheeks. Stupid fucking Liam and Sophia with their stupid perfect relationship and having to put up with Louis’ stupid bullshit. He shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t bring his fucking melodrama into their lives.

 

“I guess,” Liam says. “I kept trying to tell him that but he’d just shut down. I suppose it’s his decision, ultimately, you know? His body and all.”

 

“Right,” she says. “Woman’s right to choose.” A pause. “Or a man’s, I suppose. As the case may be.”

 

“Yeah.” There’s a long silence. Louis supposes this is the end of the conversation, and also, he feels like he’s going to be sick and doesn’t want to do it all over Liam’s pull-out sofa and create another problem for his lifelong best friend to clean up.

 

He stumbles into the bathroom just in time to retch into the toilet.

 

***

 

Sophia insists on feeding him water crackers and ginger tea. She’s really lovely—he can see, easily, why Liam loves her. Her fussing over him is also making him feel really, really small, but it’s not the worst he’s ever felt.

 

“D’you want to talk about it?” she asks after a few minutes of sitting gingerly on the edge of his bed. “I could get Liam, too,” she adds. “I find it’s sometimes easier to talk to someone you don’t know as well, though.”

 

She’s right. Louis’ never been that good with making himself vulnerable to the people who matter. He’s been getting better at it, though, he thought—but he hadn’t told Harry about this, and he thinks, this time, they might not recover from that. It’s a horrible thought, and it makes him say, suddenly, before he can really think about it, “I think Harry and I might be over.”

 

“Sweetheart,” Sophia says, moving to rub his back in slow circles. “What makes you think that?”

 

“I sort of, er.” He plays with the hem of his t-shirt. “I didn’t really tell him about my, er. Situation.”

 

“Would you like to call him?” Sophia suggests. “Better late than never, isn’t it?”

 

Louis is going to cry for like the millionth time that day. He hates it. “He knows.”

 

“Oh,” she says carefully.

 

“Uh huh. He, um, went through my mobile.”

 

“No,” she gasps. “That’s not right.”

 

“Yeah. Yeah.” He pauses. “But like, I’m not even…I was furious when I found out, but like, I dunno if I can really blame him, ‘cos like, he was just worried, y’know. I dunno how much you know about my, uh, history—“ He swallows, willing his eyes to stop burning. “—but like, I’d been acting the way I used to act when I was, um. Sick.”

 

“Liam told me, yeah,” she says gently. “I suppose that makes sense. He still shouldn’t have invaded your privacy.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“He knows you’re here?”

 

“Yep,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sort of yelled it at him before I stormed out this morning. Made a big scene and all.”

 

“Wow.”

 

“Yeah. I sort of, um.” He has to choose his words carefully. “Like. I don’t think we’ve really been on the same page, about this. Like. He wants me to keep it.”

 

“Really? Like, he should respect your choice, he shouldn’t—“

 

“The thing is,” he interrupts, through a wince. “I wasn’t, er. As clear as I might’ve been, about that. Not wanting to keep it, that is.” He still can’t really say the words.

 

“What d’you mean?”

 

He shrugs. He’d thought he’d been sending clear signals, but he also knows that Harry isn’t much of a hint-taker, especially when he feels strongly about something. “I just, like—“ He pauses for a moment. “I never said the words ‘I want an abortion.’ So. I’m not sure I can blame him, really.”

 

“Still,” she says. “It’s your decision.”

 

“But it’s his baby too,” he says in a poor imitation of her Brummy accent.

 

She looks embarrassed. “You heard that, then.” He nods. “I mean, like, yeah, but I think, like, fundamentally it’s your choice, no matter what he wants.”

 

“Woman’s right to choose,” he murmurs.

 

“Or a man’s,” she adds, giving him a little smile and a nudge.

 

“Right.” He tries for a laugh, but it comes out more sob-like. Thankfully, she doesn’t mention it, just keeps rubbing his back in soothing circles. He’s actually starting to feel a little more like he could sleep. He probably should.

 

There’s a long pause before either of them speak again. “I think,” she says slowly, “That if Harry leaves you over this, then he’s an arsehole, and you deserve better.”

 

He _doesn’t,_ though. Harry’s his miracle, the brightest thing in his life, this brilliant, impossible human being Louis’ been lucky enough to share a life with for six years. He’ll never do better than Harry. He probably shouldn’t disagree with Sophia, though, so he just nods. “Thanks,” he says after a second. “Still don’t want him to leave me, though.”

 

“Give him some time,” she says. “You don’t even know what he’s thinking, probably, if you just stormed out. People say things in the heat of the moment they don’t really mean. Have you called him?”

 

He shakes his head. “Phone’s switched off.”

 

“Switch it on, then. That’s no way to live your life, hiding from people who love you ‘cos you’re scared they might leave.” He _knows_ this, has been working for a long time on his compulsion to leave before he’s left. He feels like he’s regressed five years in a couple of months, and it’s humiliating.

 

“I will,” he says, and eats another water cracker. “Thanks for listening.” He hopes she’ll take the hint. He’s very, very tired all of a sudden.

 

She gives him a soft smile and another pat on the shoulder. “No trouble at all. I’ll leave you be, just shout if you need anything. Would you like one of the pups to sleep with you? They’re good cuddlers.”

 

He laughs a little, surprising himself. “No, thanks, I think I’m grand. Thank you again.”

 

She kisses him on the head. “Night, then.”

 

“Night.”

 

Once the lights are out, he drifts in and out of sleep, jolting awake at dreams of falling from impossible heights.

 

***

 

Harry’s missed the morning ferry already, so he has to wait for the one at half ten at night. Finding Liam’s address had swallowed a good portion of his day, frustrating him to the point of near-tears (or actual tears, as the case may be) more times than he can count. His email and Facebook messenger and address book (which Louis had made _endless_ fun of him for and which, admittedly, he’d forgotten about quickly and which is therefore very out of date) but he keeps turning up the old one. Liam had just _had_ to move last month, hadn’t he? They barely know any of the same people—Liam’s kind of always been _Louis’_ friend, kind of the way Harry is with Nick, and he’s never been put out about it until now.

 

Finally, _finally,_ he remembers that Jay would have sent a Christmas card to him at his new place. He rings her, quickly making up a story about needing to put something he’d found of Liam’s in the post and scribbles down the address with shaking hands, near illegible. He thanks Jay profusely and tells her to give his love to all the kids and Dan—he’s still _polite_ in a crisis, hates rudeness more than almost anything—and double-checks the ferry schedule. He’s got time; he winces a bit at the last-minute fare but this is _important,_ maybe more important than anything else he’s ever done, going to uni or getting into his Ph.D programme or getting his work published; none of that really means much if he’s the kind of person who’s not at Louis’ side right now.

 

He laughs a little in the empty flat, whirling around looking for things he might need, spotting his rings on the counter next to the sink. His fingers feel a little naked without them and have been all day. He manages a deep, slow breath at the familiar routine of sliding the cooled metal over his knuckes, but—

 

There’s one missing. His favorite, the one thing he’d save in a fire after Ganymede. Unless he needs to save Louis, but Louis doesn’t need saving. Harry curses himself for the millionth time since Zayn chewed him out for thinking that Louis needed anything from Harry except his unwavering _support,_ that Harry knew better than him what was good for him.

 

He’s not sure what the ring being gone means. He hopes against hope it’s not lost or that Ganymede hasn’t eaten it—she’s never been one for eating jewelry before, but there’s a first time for everything. _Louis might have taken it,_ his mind supplies. He doesn’t know what to do with that thought, either, and he’s paralyzed with terror for a moment that this is Louis kicking him out of his heart, telling him he’s not welcome anymore.

 

Another, warmer, braver part of him thinks that maybe Louis had wanted something of Harry with him, might want Harry with him now. He’ll never know if he doesn’t go—Louis seems to have shut his phone off, as he’s prone to doing when he’s truly upset. Harry did that, and he’s got to fix it.

 

He squares his shoulders, decides he can buy another one of anything he might’ve forgotten, and walks out the door after kissing Ganymede on the head. She meows and scurries off.

 

Louis hadn’t taken the car when he’d gone—thank God, as Harry isn’t sure how exactly he was going to get a car hire in Liverpool at 6:30 in the morning and drive the hour (three quarters if he speeds) it’ll take to get to Liam’s. He sends up a silent prayer to whatever saint it is who’s in charge of transportation and takes off with a screech. He probably breaks sixteen traffic laws on the way to the ferry terminal, and he finds he doesn’t care. They can fine him all they want.

 

***

 

A jingle of keys gives way to high-pitched yowling and the patter of little feet. “Hiya Ganymede,” Zayn says. She winds herself between his legs, nuzzling and purring, and then bites at his knee. “Ow.” He pouts. “What was that for?”

 

Wide yellow eyes blink up at him, and Ganymede lets out another plaintive meow. A scritch to the head seems to mollify her for now, and he follows her to the kitchen after carefully shutting and locking the door. Harry and Louis have that one weird neighbor who’s always poking her head in or coming over on the pretext of having made muffins, which are actually from Asda. The working theory is that she’s trying to get them evicted. Harry always amends this with, “Or she might just be lonely.” Louis calls her Gladys Kravitz and Zayn’s forgotten what her actual name is. Margaret something? He reaches into the cupboard and pulls out a tin.

 

Ganymede begins to meow in earnest when he opens it. “Yeah, baby, I know,” he coos, and scratches her head again, heart twingeing at the way she bumps his hand with her nose. He wants a cat. Why doesn’t he have a cat? He ought to get a cat. _With Niall,_ his brain supplies. _Shut up,_ he thinks back. _That’s mad. Niall wouldn’t want a cat with me._ That still leaves the tricky bit where he kind of wants a cat with Niall, but whatever. Zayn’s used to wanting stupid shit, he’ll be fine.

 

Ganymede munches away happily. Harry and Louis really ought to put her on a diet—then again, she’s pushing sixteen and Harry and Louis are both enormous softies. He opens the fridge and grabs a baggie of leftover chicken, shredding it into small pieces.

 

“C’mere, love,” he sing-songs. Ganymede blinks up at him. She’s got a bit of food stuck in her nostril, and he giggles before crouching to offer her a bit of chicken. “Yeah?” he says. “Thought you might like that. Hi, pretty lady.” She grows impatient with his pace and reaches up with both paws to grab onto his hand, pulling a belly laugh from him.

 

Once all the chicken’s gone, he settles onto the sofa. He doesn’t have telly at his place—does well enough with a Netflix subscription—but Louis insists on paying for it. He flicks it on to a repeat of _The Simpsons._ Halfway through the credits, Ganymede jumps up onto his lap and promptly curls in on herself and begins purring like a well-oiled engine. Or something. Zayn’s not good with car analogies, he can’t drive. He scratches behind her ears and down her spine.

 

After a minute, she lifts her head to blink at him, and meows once. She’s a strange one—he often gets the sensation that she’s got something very important to tell him. He wishes he could understand her.

 

Then again, it’s more than likely she knows everything Harry and Louis get up to in the bedroom. He shudders. He’d acclimated to it ( _it_ being Harry and Louis being stupidly happy sex-crazed maniacs) during Uni, but his tolerance has dwindled, and besides—well. It’s complicated, right now.

 

“I know,” he tells her, and kisses her head. She’s so soft, smells a bit like litter and catnip. “They’re coming home, don’t you worry. You’ve not been orphaned.” She flicks her tail and rubs her cheek against his. Her pink, rough tongue darts out to lick at his cheek, and he giggles. “Thank you. You’re my favorite. Don’t tell your dads.”

 

She meows as if in agreement, and goes to sleep. Not wanting to wake her up, he doesn’t leave the sofa for the next four hours. He texts a selfie, his face twisted in his best imitation of Ganymede’s lopsided snarl and the lady herself, to Niall, to no response. He tries not to be disappointed.

 

Just as he’s preparing to rouse her and head back to his flat, his phone buzzes.

 

_Niall: Fuck I love you_

 

Like he’s been burned, he tosses his phone across the room. Laughter bubbles up out of him uncontrollably, waking Ganymede. She grumbles at him. “Sorry,” he says through giggles. He can’t stop laughing, shaking with it. This is not an appropriate reaction. He doesn’t know what one is, but he’s glad no one’s around to see this. Well. Besides Ganymede. She’s probably judging him, but she won’t say anything.

 

It takes a long time for him to calm himself from his manic state. “Okay,” he says, out loud. “Alright. So Niall texted me he loves me. That’s odd, isn’t it, Ganymede? What do we do about that? I dunno. Let’s watch another _Simpsons,_ huh?” She shifts a bit on his legs. Maybe he can go to sleep, too. Harry and Louis’ sofa is actually quite comfortable.

 

He starts to doze off after a few minutes. One of Zayn’s skills is sleeping in times of personal crisis, ideally until those crises are over.

 

A frantic rapping on the door rouses him just as he’s beginning to properly nod off. Ganymede leaps off his legs (not before digging her claws in) and runs to the door, yowling all the way. Zayn’s very prepared to scowl at whoever’s pounding on the door at half ten. Unless it’s Harry or Louis. He’d have to decide. He’s scowling anyway at being woken up, regardless. It’s just a matter of degree.

 

He fumbles with the locks for a moment—why do they have so many?—before opening it just a bit and peeking through (three locks but no peephole, honestly), careful not to let Ganymede out. She’d done a runner once when he was house-sitting and it’d been the worst he’d ever felt in his life. He was just about ready to up sticks and move to Jamaica.

 

The bare hallway’s all he sees on the other side, and he frowns. Must be kids or something.

 

“Wait,” he hears, and he freezes just as he’s about to close the door. Niall’s voice is breathy, like he’s been running. “Sorry—I—give me a second—“

 

Zayn flings the door open and catches Niall by the elbow where he’s leaning heavily against the doorframe. “What,” he manages to get out, wincing at how dumb he sounds to his own ears.

 

“Sorry, my bleedin’ knee—sorry, sorry. I just,” Niall sputters, still breathing heavily but eyes bright and clear and not moving from Zayn’s face but darting about all over it, “I didn’t want to say that over text. It just happened, I’m sorry.”

 

Zayn blinks. “You should sit down, or.” He gestures toward the sofa. Ganymede meows. She’s met Niall once or twice, he thinks. She can be a bit odd around unfamiliar people, though. Hopefully she won’t try to trip Niall or shit in his shoes.

 

“Hi wee one,” Niall says, “You’re very beautiful.” Ganymede flicks the tip of her tail and holds Niall’s gaze. Zayn really wants him and Niall to get a cat, and despite the bright giddiness that’s settling in his chest, that’s still a stupid thought. Zayn focuses on getting Niall to the sofa and settled down, wincing in sympathy at the stiff way his legs move.

 

“Right,” Niall says, once they’re settled, Ganymede between them, chewing on the fuzz between her toes. “I love you. Will you be my boyfriend?”

 

“I love you too,” Zayn blurts out. _Stupid, stupid._ What if Niall doesn’t mean it like he means it? What if Niall runs off when Zayn inevitably says something like _I want us to get a cat_ or _I want to marry you and have your babies._

 

Niall grins. It’s like sunshine. Zayn knows his face is scrunching in response. “Wicked.”

 

“That’s—yeah. Wicked. I mean.”

 

“So. Boyfriend?”

 

Zayn blinks, dazed. He feels like he’s just been run over and also like he could scale the Eiffel tower in five minutes flat. “Er. Yeah. If you want to.”

 

“I want to. Y’alright, then?”

 

Zayn blinks. “Yeah. I’m grand. Boyfriend.”

 

“Boyfriend,” Niall agrees. “Right. I’m taking you out tonight. Forget the text.”

“What?” Zayn doesn’t want to forget the text. The text is making him feel lightheaded, still, with Niall real in real life standing right in front of him saying he loves him. They’re _boyfriends._

 

“I’m taking you out. You’re going to be properly wooed. I didn’t mean to say that over text, for Christ’s sake.”

 

“Oh,” Zayn says, and feels warmth trickling down to his toes. “Alright, then.”

 

“Alright,” Niall grins. He seems to hesitate for a moment. “I love you,” he says again, slowly, like he’s testing out the weight of the words in his mouth.

 

Zayn tries the same. “I love you.”

 

They can’t stop smiling at each other for a solid minute, until Ganymede bumps her nose against Niall’s jaw in a demand for pets, and then they start giggling.

 

“C’mon,” Niall says. “Wooing. Fanciness. We’re going somewhere posh.”

 

Zayn wrinkles his nose. “Do we have to?” He’s hoping the answer is _yes._ He doesn’t _like_ posh, necessarily, but he’s never been _worth it,_ to anyone, and it’s heady to think it might be.

 

“Absolutely. Proper wooing means tiny little complicated food that costs way too much money. I’m paying, by the way, don’t start.” He looks _nervous_ in the way Zayn has seen bits of before—Niall’s always been a little more on-edge than anyone else he knows—and he’s babbling. It’s very cute. Niall _loves him._ Zayn wants to kiss him, badly, and he does.

 

They smile against each other’s mouths for a long moment before pulling away. “Hey,” Niall says, pushing lightly at Zayn’s chest. “Wooing. That’s improper, so it is.”

 

“So it is.” The pull of his grin actually _hurts._ “I don’t mind.”

 

***

 

Eight hours is a long fucking time to be on a boat. Harry finds himself half-wishing he’d tried to catch a last-minute flight to Birmingham instead, but he’s here now. He sort of wants to burst into the cockpit and tell the captain to go faster, really put some muscle into it. That’d probably get him put in the brig, though. If there is a brig. Do ships still have brigs? They must, he decides. He doesn’t want to risk it, regardless.

 

He hadn’t brought his phone charger, either, so he’s loathe to fiddle around on that as a distraction. For some reason he’d tucked _The Shining_ into his rucksack instead of any of his own books. Louis reads it when he’s sad—says it distracts him to be terrified—but Harry’s eyes keep swimming and he finds himself reading the same sentence over and over.

 

He gives meditation a try, and it works well enough to quiet the near-constant fidgeting he’s sure had made the uptight-looking people across from him think he was high. Most everyone is sleeping, now, but Harry can’t, still too wired on nervous energy. He’s still not gotten anything from Louis. Zayn’s sent him a couple pictures of Ganymede and—is that Niall? Good for them, then. He hasn’t been paying much attention, lately.

 

Fiddling with the cross lying against his chest, he wishes suddenly for a proper rosary. He’s not said a Hail Mary in years, having gotten out of the practice of actually going to confession on a semi-regular basis, but he wants to now: wants the dull repetitiveness of it; the buzzing tenderness in his throat; the click of the beads; the familiar shape of the words in his mouth; the sense that he’s doing his penance. He tries to do it from memory but he can’t keep count and gives up in frustration. _Sorry,_ he thinks vaguely in an upward direction. _I’m having kind of a hard time. Please give me the courage and humility to fix my gigantic fuck-up. Thank you._

 

Hopefully it’s heard.

 

***

 

Louis blinks awake at shouting downstairs and thinks for a wild moment that there’s some kind of fox hunt on before he remembers where he is, lying back and listening to the thunderous chorus of deep barks. He furrows his brow. There’s also—he can barely make it out over the barking, but it sounds a lot like Liam yelling, and he doesn’t yell at his dogs like that.

 

Checking the time (half seven, he’s got an hour before he has to be at the clinic), he swings his legs out of bed and pads down the stairs, closer to the source of the noise.

 

Sophia stops him as he passes the kitchen and pulls him in for a hug. He melts into it, a little, but his ears are still pricked up. He could’ve sworn he heard—

 

“Harry’s here,” she says softly. “Liam’s being protective ‘cos that’s how he is, but if you want to see him I’ll tell him to back off. Or you could,” she adds. “Whatever’s going to make you the happiest you can be.”

 

Louis is struck dumb. He knows he’s opening and closing his mouth like a fish, looks like a proper idiot, but he just _can’t—_ “Harry’s here,” he repeats. “Harry’s here?” He can’t possibly be.

 

She nods. _Harry’s here._ Louis can’t even begin to untangle every feeling that’s coursing through his body, can barely hear anything over his heart pounding in his ears.

 

Sophia waves a hand in front of his face. Startled, he jumps back and says, “Sorry.”

 

“You’re alright,” she says. “I asked, do you want to see him?”

 

 _Does_ he want to see Harry? He has the sudden, fleeting thought that maybe Harry’s here to make it clear that he’s leaving, that he’s disgusted by Louis and his disgusting body, his inability to even use that to his advantage for something they both want, but he shakes his head to dislodge it.

 

“Right,” Sophia says, setting her mouth in a hard line. “I’ll tell Liam.”

 

“No, wait,” he finds himself saying. “I just—I want to see him, yeah.”

 

“You sure?” She looks a little wary. “You don’t have to.”

 

“I want to,” he repeats. He does, more than he wants maybe anything in the world.

 

“Okay,” she says, kissing him on the forehead. “Babe,” she calls through the doorframe, “You can call off the dogs. And yourself.”

 

There’s the sound of some sort of scuffle—four dogs are _loud_ even when they’re not barking their heads off, apparently—and then Liam peeks around the door. “You sure?” he asks, looking at Louis. “We could rough him up a bit, just to really drive the point home, you know?”

 

“I’m sure,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady. _Just get through the next second, the next minute._ “Although I appreciate the offer.”

 

Liam smiles a little. “Good,” he says in a stage whisper, “because I’m not sure I could actually hit him. I may have been bluffing when I told him I would.”

 

Louis thinks he smiles back. “Just a bit.”

 

“Just a bit,” Liam agrees. “He’s still outside. You want to go meet him?”

 

Louis is not entirely sure he can move, but his legs don’t crumple when he goes to stand anyway, leaving Sophia and Liam and the dogs who’ve followed them into the kitchen. He feels as though he’s being pulled forward by some string hooked into his ribs, powerless to stop or turn around.

 

The door’s closed, which makes sense considering it’s bloody _freezing_ outdoors, but it seems like a lot, to open the door. He feels frozen, just staring at it. If he took another step, he might see Harry through the peephole. He can’t, though. He just stays rooted to the spot, like those statues in Narnia, at the white witch’s house, or wherever they are. He’s not thinking very clearly.

 

“Louis?” he hears, muffled through the door. “Is that you?”

 

He nods before remembering Harry can’t see him. It gives him a chance to close his eyes, take a few deep breaths and exhale slowly. He’s acting like a mental patient. He needs to get it together.

 

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s not locked, you can come in.”

 

The knob turns, the wood swings, and suddenly—there’s Harry, looking like complete shit. His hair is tangled and greasy, his clothes are wrinkled, he’s got deep bluish circles under his eyes and he’s chewed his lip until it’s split in more than one place.

 

Louis loves him, so, _so_ much.

 

There’s no room in his head for any other thought. And Harry’s looking at him—Harry’s looking at him like maybe he still loves him too, looks like he can’t quite believe Louis’ standing in front of him, mouth hanging open, eyes wide and unblinking. Louis probably looks more or less the same. They stare at each other, motionless and silent, for a long moment before a dog barks from somewhere in the house and they both startle, a bit.

 

Louis can’t control the words that come out of his mouth. “You look like shit,” he says. He winces as soon as he has. Why does he always say the wrong thing?

 

Harry laughs, though, properly, throwing his head back and all, and then Louis’ laughing too, a little hysterically, bubbling up through his chest and throat and mouth into the cold morning air between them and steaming it up. When they get ahold of themselves, Harry seems twitchy, nervous, shifting back and forth on the doormat. It says _wipe your paws!_

 

Louis starts to open his mouth again, apologize, but Harry beats him to it. “I love you,” he says. “I love you so fucking much, Louis, and I’m so sorry.” His voice is deep and low and scratchy and there’s none of his easy charm in it. It makes him sound younger, so much younger, vulnerable and scared.

 

Tears are threatening to spring to Louis’ eyes again and he swallows against them. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry.” He can’t keep his voice level.

 

The little line between Harry’s eyebrows makes its appearance, furrowing deep and dark in the middle of his slightly spotty forehead. Louis loves it, wants to kiss it to make Harry laugh. “Why are you apologizing? I was horrid,” Harry says, corners of his mouth turned down sharply.

 

“I mean,” Louis says. He’s confused. He’d thought Harry was angry at him. “I was, like. All kinds of awful. To everyone, but to you, especially. Still kind of am, actually,” he finishes, with a little laugh, hollow and scratchy.

 

Harry’s brows pull even closer together. “You were hurting and you didn’t feel like you could tell me,” he says, with the careful enunciation that hints that he’s practiced this. Louis would rib him for it usually, but he stays silent. Harry takes a deep breath before continuing. “I might never forgive myself for that, and I wouldn’t ever expect you to, either. Hope, maybe. I’m not, like—Zayn sort of yelled at me, and made me realize. Not that I’m here just because I’m sorry, or to make myself feel better, although I _am_ sorry, but I want. I want to be there for you, in whatever way you want. Or I can piss off, if you want that,” he finishes, quietly.

 

“I don’t want you to piss off,” Louis says in a tiny voice.

 

The shadow of a dimple appears in Harry’s left cheek. “Well. That’s good, then. I’m probably not safe to drive, right now.”

 

“Did you—“ Louis glances out the window and sees their little white Vauxhall Corsa parked by the curb. Badly parked, someone’ll have to move that. “Did you, like…” Obviously Harry had gotten here, so he’s not really sure what his question is.

 

“Take the 10:30 ferry and not sleep the whole night and then drive like a reckless idiot on the M62?”

 

Yes. That. “Yeah.”

 

Harry nods, blinking slowly at Louis. God, his eyes are beautiful. The clearest, brightest green Louis’ ever seen, only intensified by the redness around them. “I love you,” he repeats, “And I’m so fucking sorry.”

 

“I’m sorry too,” Louis says, and then holds a finger up when Harry opens his mouth to protest. “I know you think this is all your fault, but I was…I didn’t communicate with you. At all. And that was my mistake. You’re not a mindreader, and it was unfair of me to expect you to be.” Louis’ also practiced this speech in the wee hours, between periods of fitful sleep. He just hadn’t thought he’d be reciting it this morning. “I should’ve been honest with you from the start and asked you for what I need instead of hiding and getting upset with you when you didn’t give it to me.”

 

Harry blinks. “Okay,” he says. “I accept your apology.”

 

“I accept yours,” Louis says. “But—“ Harry visibly tenses, the corners of his mouth pulling down and his brows knitting together. “I just. Will you, um. Will you come with me?” His voice is quiet, scared, barely gets out of his throat.

 

“God,” Harry chokes, “Of course, of course, of course, can I _please_ hug you—“ Louis nods and then Harry’s big, warm body is all around him, enclosing him and shielding him from anything that might hurt him. Louis’ fingers dig desperately into him automatically, pulling him so close that he’s half-afraid one of them might strain something. They both babble nonsense into each other’s necks—Louis makes out the shape of _I love you_ over and over, more than anything else, and it’s a long, long time before they pull apart, panting a little for air.

 

Louis looks at Harry’s beautiful, tear-streaked face, his wobbling, wide mouth, his flushed cheeks, his wet eyes, and then puts his hands on his face, Harry nuzzling into the contact and pressing a soft kiss to Louis’ palm.

 

That’s permission—he knows Harry. He maybe should, but he doesn’t ask before leaning in and kissing him on the mouth, a little desperate and disgusting, both of them snotty and unwashed, teeth not brushed, but. It’s probably the best kiss of Louis’ life. He may be exaggerating. He doesn’t really care, if he’s honest.

 

He hears a cough from behind him, and the scrabble of nails on tile. “Sorry to interrupt,” Liam says, looking a bit sheepish, “but we’ve actually got to get going.”

 

Right. Appointment. Procedure. Real things that Louis has to deal with, refusing to think about. _Get through the next hour, the next minute, the next second._ “Harry’s coming with,” he says, focusing on that.

 

“Alright,” Liam says. “He’ll have to ride in the boot—I’m just _kidding,_ Harry, Christ. D’you—I mean, would you feel better just going the two of you?”

 

Louis pulls back to look at Harry, who just shrugs and murmurs, “Your call, babe.”

 

His call. Alright. Then—“Both of you, I think. If that’s alright.”

 

“Brill,” Liam says. “I’ll just pop the dog seatbelts out of the back seat. Sorry about all the dirt.”

 

Louis and Harry both start laughing simultaneously, to Liam’s puzzlement. Louis’ probably been confusing him this whole time, he figures. Oh well. It’s not like he’s not baffled by the sudden and wild shifts of his emotions, the way he’s ricocheting between extremes at the drop of a coin. He’s about to make a joke about pregnancy hormones before he remembers he _actually has_ pregnancy hormones and then he kind of wants to curl up in a ball and let the ground swallow him.

 

He lets Harry guide him into the car, instead. Harry takes the middle seat so that Louis can burrow into his side and nose at his hair and have his big hand rub up and down his back. They don’t speak.

 

***

 

When he’d been arranging all this, Louis had asked if he could be put under all the way, but it had been expensive and “ill advised,” Dr. Holmes had remarked, “Lengthens your recovery period by quite a bit, also.” It would be ridiculous to spend money he doesn’t have on unnecessary anesthesia, he’d reasoned. Frivolous.

 

Still, his grip on Harry’s hand tightens until his knuckles are white and he must be leaving bruises as the calm, friendly nurse explains exactly what’s going to happen. Harry nods and asks questions, and Louis would squeeze his hand gratefully if it were possible to grip it any tighter than he already is.

 

It only takes five minutes, all told, but the feeling of instruments being pushed inside him and the insistent, awful pressure stretch the time out impossibly, and he tries to pretend he’s somewhere else but can’t, blinking up at the white ceiling and unable to stop feeling it. Harry talks the whole time, murmuring words he hears but can’t focus on, and his hand doesn’t leave Louis’, so Louis tries to focus as much as he can on that.

 

“I’m so proud of you,” Harry says, once he’s managed to make it out of the clinic and into the backseat of Liam’s car, dazed and shaking. “I love you so much.” He doesn’t even squawk about seatbelts, just lets Louis lie across the seat with his head in Harry’s lap and strokes his hair gently.

 

“You want the radio on?” Liam asks, after a few minutes of silence. Louis shakes his head minutely, and Harry reports his answer to Liam, but—

 

“Could you,” Louis says, feeling sort of like he’s hearing himself from far away, “Would you sing something? Maybe?”

 

Harry doesn’t answer, just starts singing. He doesn’t recognize the song, but Harry’s voice is deep and steady, and Louis can feel the little vibrations of Harry’s abdomen against his back.

 

“I'll drown my beliefs,” he sings, slow, soft. “To have your babies.” Louis pointedly doesn’t notice the little crack in his voice, the minute tensing of his fingers. The words sort of wash over him, the hum of the engine beneath them drowning some out so he only picks up bits and pieces, Harry thumbing over his hands and his lips and pressing his mouth against his ear to mostly whisper about his _tiny hands_ and _crazy kitten smile._

 

He hears the part he thinks matters most, though, the one Harry’s voice goes a little wobbly on at every repetition. _Don’t leave._ He tries to press his answer into Harry’s thigh, index finger making out the vague shape of letters. _I won’t._ He hopes Harry feels it.

 

***

 

Louis sleeps for about four hours after they get back to Liam’s. Harry can’t bring himself to move more than a few feet away from him; rationally, he knows he’s being ridiculous, but something in his gut tells him to stay close, not to let Louis out of his sight. He drifts off a few times himself, never for more than a few minutes, each time waking up with a surge of terror that he’s lost Louis; he needs to watch the little rise and fall of his chest beneath the heated blanket Sophia had draped over him for several minutes before he can calm the racing of his heart.

 

“Calm down,” he tells himself, replaying their earlier conversation in his head. Louis still loves him, Louis doesn’t hate him. He hasn’t fucked things up incontrovertibly. They can fix this.

 

Liam eventually drags him into the kitchen and practically forces toast down his throat. Harry almost asks for marmite, even though he doesn’t like it, because it’s Louis’ favorite thing when he’s ill. There’s a cup of tea, and some quiet conversation that Harry doesn’t really register.

 

“You know,” Liam says after a long silence, “I’ve seen him more upset than he was last night.” His tone is serious, voice lower than usual.

 

Harry furrows his brow. “Okay,” he says slowly.

 

“But,” Liam continues, as though Harry hasn’t spoken, “That’s the worst I’ve seen him in a long time, and it scared me.”

 

Harry flushes. “Yeah. I’m sorry.” That doesn’t even really cover it, but it’s all Harry can think to say.

 

“Not me you need to apologize to,” Liam says, and holds a hand up when Harry opens his mouth. “I know you already did, but you know how Louis is. Just saying it once won’t make him believe it, you know?”

 

“I know.” They’ve had to work hard at understanding the languages they each use to show their affection. Louis is action-oriented; Harry leans towards the abstract.

 

“Okay. As long as you do.” Liam claps him on the back and some of the tension evaporates. He’s glad Louis has Liam in his corner, even though he himself never plans to leave it again.

 

There’s a quiet cough from behind them, and both Liam and Harry whip around. Louis looks a little dazed, unsteady on his feet, his eyes bloodshot and ringed in red.

 

“Hi baby,” Harry says, getting up to move slowly toward him, arms outstretched in question. Louis gives a short, jerky nod and Harry wraps his stiff form in his arms, mentally documenting the way Louis’ breath shudders a little, his heartbeat uneven. He kisses the top of his head, his hair weighed down a bit with grease. “How are you?”

 

Louis just shrugs. The papers Harry had accepted on Louis’ behalf had outlined some of the emotions Louis should expect following his procedure, stressing that each case was different and that whatever he was feeling was normal and would pass. “I thought you might have left,” he mumbles, so quietly Harry can barely make it out, and Harry clutches him tighter, breathing in his scent.

 

“Never, baby, never,” he whispers over and over again. “I love you so much.”

 

They stand like that for a long time, Harry absorbing the fine tremors that run through Louis’ body. They’ve got this. They’re going to be all right.

 

***

 

Louis can’t stop crying. He doesn’t know what’s fucking _wrong_ with him. He’s relieved and happy one moment, angry the next, wants to cling to Harry and wants to scream at him to leave him alone. To Harry’s credit, he seems to take it all relatively in stride, quiet and steady and reassuring, fucking off when Louis tells him to and coming back the second he calls for him. Liam and Sophia peek in every so often, but Louis feels a little too raw for anyone but Harry to see him.

 

Well—

 

“Harry,” he whispers, just as the sun’s beginning to set. Harry’s eyes are shut, his dark lashes fanned out against the deep shadows under his eyes. He blinks awake as soon as he hears Louis, though, making a small, soft sound and turning his face towards the older man.

 

“Wha’s up?” His voice is sleep-rough and pitched low.

 

“Um,” Louis starts. “Never mind.” It’s too much to ask for. Stupid. Selfish.

 

“No, baby.” Harry sits up with what appears to be a tremendous effort, knuckling at his eye sockets. “What is it? I’m up.”

 

Louis bites hard on his lower lip and squeezes his eyes shut against a cramp that makes him want to whimper. Dimly, he remembers the nurse telling him about that—something about bleeding, too, but he’d been too on-edge to register it. Harry rubs soothingly at his lower stomach like he knows. Probably he does. As much as Harry is Louis’s baby, he’s brilliant at taking care of Louis. He hates to ask, to seem like he’s not appreciative, but.

 

“I want my mum,” he whispers. “I really want my mum.” He doesn’t fight the tears that clog his throat.

 

“Shhh, shh,” Harry soothes. “I know. I know. You’re alright. Of course you want your mum, love.”

 

“’s stupid,” he mumbles. “I don’t know why I’m being like this.”

 

“Not stupid. Totally normal. Would you like to ring her?”

 

Louis shakes his head. “I dunno.” He hates feeling this fragile. He’s meant to be the one other people rely on, not pathetic and helpless and crying all the time.

 

“Hang on just a moment,” Harry says. “I’ll be right back, okay? You want me to get Liam?”

 

“No,” Louis says, just a bit sullen. He really shouldn’t be getting irritated at Harry, considering. He just hates feeling like he needs a minder. Harry pecks him on the temple.

 

He hears murmuring from down the hall and tries to ignore the prickling sensation crawling over his skin, the deep, twisting ache low in his gut. Both seem to build as Harry’s gone, which is ridiculous and entirely in Louis’ head, he knows. That doesn’t make him stop feeling it.

 

Just as his breathing is beginning to pick up in that telltale way, the door creaks open and Harry shuffles inside, clearly trying to be quiet in case Louis has fallen asleep. He gets the sudden urge to say, _I couldn’t sleep without you._ That feels like too much, though, somehow.

 

He’s not really in control of his hands as they reach out for Harry in the dim room, but he’s soon enveloped by soft heat and Harry’s hair tickling his cheeks, so he doesn’t dwell on it. “Hey,” Harry says, into his hair, “Easy, easy. I’ve got you.”

 

Louis just hums and concentrates on the slow steadiness of Harry’s breathing, trying to match his own with it.

 

“I phoned your mum,” Harry murmurs after a long moment. “I didn’t tell her anything, don’t worry,” he adds, when Louis tenses up. “Just said we weren’t far away and you were missing her. It’s only an hour and a half’s drive, we could get there before tea, if you wanted.”

 

“You’ve not slept,” Louis says, even thought what he wants to say is _yes, yes, yes, please._ “Don’t fancy ending up all over the motorway.”

 

The thing is that Harry knows him well enough now to know how sometimes he won’t ask for what he really wants, deflects with a joke instead, so he flushes warm inside when Harry carefully hauls them up into a sitting position and squeezes him once, hard.

 

“C’mon, then” Harry says. “Let’s get your shoes on.”

 

“Wait,” Louis says, with one trainer half-tied. He can smell himself. That’s not good. “I need a shower.”

 

Harry sniffs under his own arm and smiles ruefully. “Me too.”

 

“Right. We’re both fucking rank, aren’t we?” Louis giggles, and Harry giggles back. It’s a small moment of normalcy, and Louis clings to it like a fucking life preserver. _Christ,_ he thinks, _that was melodramatic._

 

“You can go first, if you’d like,” Harry says. “I’ll just make sure we’ve got everything, pack the car and all.” He starts to get up, but Louis catches his sleeve.

 

“Would you—“ He bites his lip. “Could we, like. Together?” Everything he says feels like stripping himself naked again and again. He hates it.

 

“Yeah, love,” Harry says, a slight raise of his eyebrows the only tell that he’s surprised. “Sure.”

 

They have a mild spat over how, exactly, Liam’s shower operates (Louis is right, naturally). It’s another bizarre moment of normalcy. Harry checks the water with his hand and cranks the temperature up just a bit. It’s just how Louis likes it when he checks, himself—hot enough to pink his skin. They undress with their backs turned to each other and Harry averts his eyes as he steps into the shower.

 

Louis is struck with the desire to have Harry look at him. Some part of him is screaming _he doesn’t want you anymore, he’s disgusted by you,_ so he turns around and takes a step out of the spray, away from Harry, and touches his jaw. Harry blinks at him.

 

“Hey,” he tells him, getting up on his toes to press a kiss to the line between his eyebrows. “’m not going to like, freak out. You’re alright.”

 

Harry gives him a shy smile, in contrast to the way he makes no attempt to cover his body. Harry’s lack of modesty has driven Louis a bit up the wall in the past—still does, sometimes, makes him feel hot with jealousy at the way he can just stroll around naked, strip his shirt off in public, sprawl like a starfish and not pay any mind to whether his clothes are riding up—but it’s. Kind of nice. This hasn’t changed.

 

For a fleeting moment, Louis thinks about starting something, touching Harry with intent and asking to be touched, craving proof that he’s still desirable even if the thought makes his stomach turn. Fingers digging into his scalp snap him out of that line of thought, working shampoo into his filthy hair in firm motions that make him sigh a little, content. Harry’s careful with him but not gentle. Louis allows him to turn him around, tip his head this way and that and rinse the soap out of his hair, lather his body and dig in with the heels of his hands, like he’s trying to push the soreness out of Louis’ body. It’s normal. It’s _good,_ most of all.

 

What’s better is Harry kissing the top of his head when he’s done and then turning around and letting Louis return the favor, carefully conditioning his long curls and making them smell like coconut, tweaking his nipples just to make him squawk and giggle, cleaning in between his toes and then tickling the bottoms of his feet just because he can. Taking care of Harry like this makes relief spread throughout his body—this is the natural order of things, this is how they work. Louis’ not irrevocably changed them by needing to be taken care of for a bit.

 

Harry’s forgotten his phone charger but brought his fancy expensive organic moisturizer. Louis pinches his cheeks and calls him a hippie but steals some anyway. They’re going to be fine.

 

***

 

“Hey.” Niall nudges Zayn with his elbow. They’re propped up in bed (Niall’s, as it’s closer), Zayn tucked into Niall’s side with his head resting on Niall’s shoulder. Niall, who is his boyfriend. _Boyfriend._ He’s cuddled up on his _boyfriend’s_ bed. God. One of Niall’s (very nice) hands sits on Zayn’s shoulder, squeezing intermittently. There’s an old episode of _Blackadder_ playing. The two of them erupt in loud laughter every couple of minutes, Zayn’s face scrunching up in a way he’s a little self-conscious about.

 

“What?” he says, not taking his eyes off Baldrick standing proudly with his ten thousand pound turnip.

 

“I love you,” Niall says, smile clear in his voice.

 

Zayn’s never going to get over how that sounds, he’s pretty sure. It makes him grin like a lunatic and Niall plant little kisses on the apples of his cheeks. “I love you too,” Zayn giggles, “That tickles, oh my God.” He’s flushed down to his toes.

 

Naturally, Zayn’s phone chooses that moment to start buzzing rapidly. He groans. “No,” he tells it. “Go away.”

 

“Might be important,” Niall says. “Go on, then.”

 

He’s got texts off both Louis and Harry, which makes him hopeful as he unlocks his phone. His best friend and that friend’s fiancé (probably Zayn’s second best friend, if he’s honest) are maybe the closest thing Zayn’s seen to actual soulmates, and it would probably send him into a pit of deep existential despair were they to not make it work. A pit of deep existential despair that would be highly inconvenient given how he and Niall have established a comfortable rhythm of giggling and kissing and saying “I love you” every few minutes.

 

He checks Louis first. _all done with. h took the overnight ferry to be w/me. said u yelled at him. driving to my mum’s now. love you xxxxxxxxx_

 

Zayn lets out what might be called a whoop. Niall seems alarmed and delighted at once. “You sound happy.”

 

“I am,” Zayn says, going to check the four new messages from Harry.

 

_Hi. Sorry I didn’t text back before. Lovely picture, by the way. Happy for you two (?)_

 

_Thank you for talking sense into me. I really needed it. We talked and I think it’s going to be okay._

 

_Btw, we’re going to Louis’ mum’s. Stopped to go to the loo, not texting and driving._

 

_Thank you again. I’m glad Louis has people like you in his corner. Xx_

 

“Harry texts like my mum,” is the first thing that comes out of Zayn’s mouth. “He’s really ridiculously charming.”

 

Niall nods. “So he is,” he says. “What’s he on about, then?”

 

“He went to get Louis.” He’d not been sure how much Louis would want him telling Niall, but his instinct said _nothing_ and he’d listened. “Took the overnight ferry to Liverpool.”

 

“Wow,” Niall says, raising his eyebrows. “That’s like something out of a film.”

 

“Sort of,” Zayn says. “Anyway, that’s why I was over at theirs. Watching Ganymede. I may have, er—“ He scratches the back of his neck “—torn Harry a bit of a new one?”

 

Niall lets out a low whistle and rubs his fingers through Zayn’s hair. It’s getting a bit long. “Must’ve been a good speech.”

 

“Maybe.” He’s actually a bit embarrassed, but it had clearly gotten the job done. “Got a bit of a temper sometimes.” He takes a moment to fire off a heart emoji to both Harry and Louis, then locks his phone. “Sorry.”

 

“That’s all right. I’m too nervous to start fights, me. Can’t even break them up, have to get Bressie to do it.”

 

Zayn snorts. “You’re a kitten. Like, an actual human kitten.”

 

“Yep.” Niall grins. “So are you, boyfriend.” He nuzzles into Zayn’s face like a cat, getting bits of hair in his mouth, and Zayn bursts into laughter.

 

God. _Boyfriend._

 

***

 

Louis buys paracetamol, water and cinnamon chewing gum at the petrol station they stop at, a few kilometers outside of Sheffield. The tablets feel odd going down his throat, but the water helps him calm, a bit, and the gum is to make Harry smile. It does. When he leans in for a kiss, he tastes like cinnamon.

 

He’d expected they’d be mostly silent on the drive—they haven’t said all that much to each other since their semi-public rom-com reunion, which Louis is starting to feel a bit embarrassed about—but Harry seems to sense his anxiety and keeps up a steady stream of observations and _remember when_ s. It’s easy between them, like it’s always been. Harry’s his favorite person in the world to talk to, has been pretty much since they met.

 

Louis’ responses get shorter as they get closer to Doncaster. He’s—he’s afraid. He knows he’s not going to get out of his mum’s house without telling her what’s been going on, and as much as he wants that, his mum’s a midwife and she’d had him so young and with almost no money and a boyfriend who’d run off and _she’d managed._ He can’t shake the thought that she’s going to judge him, love him less. The rational part of his brain says _she’ll love you no matter what,_ but it’s quiet compared to the insistent throb of fear in his chest.

 

“Hey,” Harry says, looking over at him when they’re at a stoplight. “You’re alright. Deep breaths, c’mon, that’s it.” He’s coaching Louis through the anxiety attack just like Louis’d done for him so many times when they were younger. _We take care of each other,_ Louis thinks. “That’s it, you’re doing so well. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

 

They’re coming up on the turn for Louis’ street. Harry takes it smoothly, pulling into the drive behind his mum’s blue Hyundai. The rear bumper sticks out a bit, but it’s already all dented to hell from Louis’ parallel parking mishap. Mishaps. There’s lights on, movement in the windows. Louis shouldn’t feel terrified of seeing his family. He shouldn’t feel the compulsion to go and hide under the seats of the car.

 

He doesn’t notice Harry’s taken his hand until the younger man raises it to his lips and presses a kiss to the knuckles, then squeezes. It’s enough to get him out of the car and walking towards the house.

 

The door opens before they’re up the steps and all of Louis’ sisters barrel out at once. Phoebe makes it to him first and squeezes tight around his middle, which hurts a good bit, but Daisy’s right behind her, and Louis just squeezes both of them desperately. Despite the fear coursing through his system, he’s _so fucking happy_ to see them. Lottie and Fizzy pile on and it’s a tangle of limbs that’s really very uncomfortable but that he’s not sure he wants to leave. It does end, eventually.

 

“Hi Harry,” shouts Daisy, tugging at the hem of his shirt. “Your hair’s longer.”

 

“It is,” Harry agrees, bending a bit at the knees to make eye contact. “It’s lovely to see you again. You’ve grown about, oh…” He puts on a thoughtful expression. “Six inches since I last saw you?”

 

There’s a chorus of chatter on all sides, and Louis is a little overwhelmed. Happy, but overwhelmed, and there’s still dread curling in his gut, insistent and heavy. His mum’s in the doorframe, Ernest on her hip. They both give him little waves. He smiles, and glances back to Harry, who’s already got Phoebe sitting on his shoulders. He’s a pushover. Louis will have to be the disciplinarian when they have kids. The thought startles him, but it doesn’t make him want to curl up and die like it has been doing.

 

“Hi love,” his mum’s voice says from just behind him. “Glad you’re home.” She kisses him on the cheek. “Sorry Dais and Phoebs aren’t paying any attention, they’re a bit obsessed. It’s almost past their bedtime, anyway. You and I will talk after, yeah?” She says it gently enough that it calms some of the fear in his belly.

 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah.”

 

***

 

Harry and Louis help Jay put both sets of twins to bed—“Dan’s out of town for work,” she says, “We have the routine down to a science.”—and, after all of the little ones are settled, Harry lures Lottie and Fizzy into the sitting room by promising they can give him a makeover.

 

Louis and his mum sit at the kitchen table. She’s made them each a cup of tea and offers Louis the pack of custard creams. He still feels sort of ill, but he takes one anyway and dutifully eats it. The tea does help settle his nerves, a bit.

 

“Now,” Jay starts, and then pauses and reaches for Louis’ hand. “What’s all this about, then? Harry said you were poorly.”

 

“Um. Sort of.” He scratches the back of his neck and tries to stop the bouncing of his left leg, but it’s useless. He was constantly getting in trouble for it in school. He clears his throat. “I mean, I was, and sort of am still, but like, it’s okay?” He winces at how he’s beating about the bush. “Sorry.”

 

“You’re alright, love,” she says, and squeezes his hand. “You know I love you no matter what, right?”

 

He swallows and nods. “So you know, like, back when I first started hormones—“ He doesn’t miss the twitch of her eye. “—and the doctor, I can’t remember his name, said there was like, a 90-something percent chance I’d be, like, sterile?”

 

“Mhm.”

 

“Well,” he says, “I’m not.” It comes out as a nervous laugh.

 

She’s touching her mouth with her hand now, brows furrowed. “I’m not quite sure I understand, love. Are you…are you trying to tell me you’re pregnant?”

 

He ducks his head. He can’t look her in the eye. “Sort of,” he says, his voice still high and reedy and with a shaky sort of laughter to it. “I mean. Yes. But like. Mum, I’m so sorry, please please please don’t hate me—“

 

“Sweetheart.” She pulls him toward her, the squeak of the chair skidding across the vinyl sudden and loud. “I will never, ever, hate you,” she says into the fierce hug she’s pulled him into, and then holds him at a little less than arm’s length. “Am I going to be a grandmother, then?” She sounds almost…hopeful. He can’t bear it.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I couldn’t, I wanted to, like, for Harry, I want kids, but I couldn’t, I couldn’t do it—“

 

“Baby,” she says, and squeezes him tightly, knocking the air out of his chest. “You terminated it, then?” He nods against her shoulder. “Love. Louis. Look at me, okay?”

 

He does. Her eyes are a little wet. “Do you remember,” she says, “what I told you when you came out?”

 

“Which time?” he asks, trying for a laugh. She smiles.

 

“Any of them. But when you told me you wanted to be a boy—I’m sorry love, when you told me you were a boy. Do you remember what I said?”

 

“Not really,” he admits. “I was scared stiff.”

 

“And I told you you didn’t need to be, because no matter what, you’d always be my baby. My boo bear,” she says, probably just to make him wince. “And that I’d be happy as long as you were _here,_ and doing your best to be happy.”

 

He sniffles. “I sort of remember that, yeah.”

 

The corners of her mouth turn down a bit. “It was just you and me for a long time. And it was difficult, but I wouldn’t have traded it for the world, because I had this little tiny person who was so brilliant.” He opens his mouth to apologize, again, but she holds up a hand. “Hang on. What I mean to say is, bar a few moments of weakness, I was always sure.” She takes a deep breath. “I know you have difficulty with feeling unwanted, with your bastard of a biological father and all, and I know the split with Mark was tough on you, but I always wanted you. I will always want you around, no matter what you call yourself or what you look like or what you do with your body.”

 

She takes another deep, shuddery breath, and closes her eyes hard. “When you were ill,” she says, and oh God, she’s going to cry, he’s already crying, he just hadn’t noticed. “The first time, your doctor told me I had to come to terms with the fact that I might lose you. And I told him to shove it up his arse, because you were my baby, and I refused.” He’s crying hard, taking shallow breaths and hiccupping. Jay plows on. “I know you feel terribly guilty for everything you think you’ve put me through, and it _has_ been difficult, but what you’ve taught me is that the only important thing is that you’re _here,_ with the people who love you. And you have to do whatever you need to do so that you can be here, because we’d be lost without you. I’m wouldn’t survive it.”

 

His shoulders are shaking, and she rubs at his back, letting him cry into her shoulder, the other hand carding through his hair. “Shhh, love, it’s alright, You’re alright, I’ve got you. It’s okay, baby, I promise it’s okay. You did what you needed to do and I’m proud of you.”

 

She can’t possibly be. He makes a little noise that sounds like _no._ “Yes, Lou. I’m proud of you. I would’ve been proud of you either way, baby. You did the right thing for you. You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

 

They sit there until Louis can’t ignore the pins and needles in his legs any longer and uncurls himself, wincing. He gives his mum a watery smile, and she kisses him on the forehead. “You look tired, love,” she says. “Dais and Phoebs can sleep with me tonight, you and Harry can take their bed. Unless,” she says after a moment, “We still like Harry, yes?”

 

He blushes a little and nods. “Yes. It was…a bit rough, but I think we’re okay.”

 

“Right,” she says. “I’ll just get fresh sheets for the two of you. You should go rescue him from the beauty salon.” She winks at him.

 

He rolls his eyes. “Please, he loves it. Paints his own toes all the time.”

 

“He’s a good egg,” Jay says. A thoughtful pause. “I’ll have to have a chat with him about using proper protection, though.”

 

“ _Mum!_ ” Louis squawks, but she just laughs at him and bustles away. He dumps the tea bags in the bin and rinses out the cups before setting them on a dish towel to dry. He sees Harry sidle up to him out of the corner of his eye, his cheeks seeming shinier than usual, and he shivers pleasantly when Harry wraps an arm around him.

 

“Talk go alright?” Harry asks.

 

“Yeah.” Louis absolutely _will not cry again._ He’s not getting choked up thinking about just how alright it had gone. “Brilliant.”

 

“Good,” Harry says, and kisses the top of his head. “Time for sleep.” He makes a little grumbling noise as they settle in, like a disgruntled kitten. Like he always has done.

 

They’re both out almost before they hit the mattress, and don’t wake up for twelve hours.

 

***

 

Jay tries to insist on driving them back to Liverpool—“Goodness sakes, you two, I can get a minder, I’m not trapped here”—but eventually relents at Louis’ pointing out that they need to get _their_ car back to Belfast and can’t very well leave her stranded at the docks. “I’m fine to drive, mum,” he reassures between tight hugs and promises to ring if he needs anything at all. “’s not like I’ve had my legs removed, innit?” His laugh is watery, and they cling for a long time before he gets in the car.

 

“Alright?” Harry asks.

 

“Alright,” he says, and means it.

 

***

 

Despite how much he’d love to collapse into bed and sleep as soon as they’re home Sunday evening, Louis really does have a mountain of work to do before he goes back into work in the morning. Harry is more or less in the same boat, resting his head on Louis’ lap and lamenting his lack of foresight—“Lou, why didn’t I write these exams _months_ ago”—with Louis humming in response as he answers emails and marks worksheets without really looking at them. Tech week isn’t for another two weeks—thank _God,_ he’d never have made it through—but that means there’s little time left to get everything to a point where he can manage it. He’ll have to meet with Clem tomorrow, check in on sound and costuming and all the bits he’s not really been paying much attention to. His head feels clearer, now, more focused.

 

Around midnight, both of them start falling asleep in front of their respective piles of paper, and Louis sighs, takes of his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. “C’mon,” he says, nudging Harry’s heavy body with his knee. “Up you get, love. Bedtime.” Harry grunts in protest and does that thing where he somehow makes himself even heavier across Louis’ lap. “Come on,” Louis laughs. “Up with you.”

 

“Nooooo,” Harry groans. “Comfy here. Stay here.”

 

“You’ll hurt your back, love. ‘sides, I do kind of need my legs. Might have to amputate ‘em if you keep stopping the blood flow.”

 

Harry grunts and whines again, but stretches, cat-like, and blinks at Louis, looking severely put-out. Louis kisses the tip of his nose, and Harry makes a soft, contented noise, pressing forward into the touch. Louis is helpless not to indulge him once, twice, three times, until his dimples are popping and there’s a flush to his cheeks. He’s still not budging, though. Time for extreme measures.

 

“All right,” he tells Harry. “Let’s get you to bed.” Harry glares at him mullishly, and then his eyes go wide when Louis hooks one arm under his knees and the other under his shoulders, counting to three and lifting with his knees.

 

“Lou!” Harry squawks, apparently suddenly awake and alert. “Don’t, you’ll hurt yourself.”

 

Louis scoffs and tries not to let the strain of holding Harry up show in his voice. “Come off it, you’re not that huge, you big baby.”

 

He does nearly drop Harry twice in the hallway and _definitely_ drops him on the mattress, but that could be intentional. Despite how exhausted he obviously is, Harry insists on fussing and making sure Louis’ back is all right. It’s _fine—_ a little strained, in need of a rest, but fine.

 

***

 

Louis talks to Ganymede sometimes when he thinks Harry’s not listening. He does it when he knows Harry _is_ listening, too, but then he’s actually talking to Harry and using the cat as a cover—“ _I_ love your shoes, Harry, _she’s_ the one who thinks they look wonky, honestly”—but he does seem to actually _talk_ to her when he thinks they’re alone.

 

Like now. Harry’d been in the sitting room with his headphones on, transcribing a panel discussion for the last few hours, when he’d decided to call it a day before he started screaming. He pads down the hallway noiselessly and begins to hear murmuring drifting from behind their bedroom door, pausing to listen once he can hear it clear enough.

 

“Did you know,” Louis says, “that cats can re-absorb pregnancies at will? Like, if you were to decide, oh, not the right time to have kittens, you could just…make it happen. Isn’t that sick? Have you ever done that?” He’s using the high, sweet voice he uses to talk to animals, if it weren’t obvious enough he was having a discussion with their cat. Harry’s lips quirk up at the sides. Louis, for all that he’s tried all his life to project an air of careless, reckless invulnerability, to be _loud loud loud,_ is a massive, massive softie. “Have you ever done that, girl? Dunno. You’ve had a hard life, haven’t you? Yeah. Poor thing. Princess like you shouldn’t be living on the streets, ‘s too dirty. Don’t think you would’ve had kittens, then, would you? Not without somewhere warm. Better off, they’re needy little buggers. Cute, but needy. What would you think if we got one?”

 

Harry decides to make himself known—Louis should know what Harry knows about him, is a decision they’ve come to since…everything. Not that they have to tell each other everything, but that both of them should be aware of what information they share. It’s working out better. “Are you saying we should get a kitten, then?” He tries to keep the hopeful note out of his voice, but, well. A _kitten._

 

“Harold,” Louis says. “What have I told you about eavesdropping? Ganymede and I were having a private conversation. Girl talk, you wouldn’t understand.” Harry giggles, relishing the easy way Louis jokes with him again.

 

“Sorry,” he says, opening the door and stepping in with a sheepish grin. “Didn’t mean to. Just figured I might actually tear all my hair out if I had to listen to Lauren Berlant for another minute.”

 

“Well, we wouldn’t want that, would we?” Louis says, half into Ganymede’s fur. “Not when he’s almost got the mermaid look down. All he needs is the seashell bra, really.”

 

Harry laughs, but he’s not about to be distracted. Not that he isn’t easily distractible, but he’s perfectly capable of being single-minded, laser-focused. “What is this about kittens, then?”

 

Louis shrugs. It’s his _totally-casual-feigning-nonchalance_ shrug. Harry knows how to read him. “Perrie mentioned that Jade’s cat had kittens, ‘s all. And, well.” He purses his lips, jerking his head a bit towards Ganymede purring on his chest. “She’s getting on in her years. Might be good to have someone else in the house.” Another shrug.

 

Harry smiles. “You just want a kitten.”

 

“Well,” Louis drawls. “That, too.”

 

***

 

Saturday afternoon, Zayn makes the executive decision to physically drag Louis out of his and Harry’s flat to walk Lola with him. “Fresh air will do you good,” he’d said magnanimously. He’d probably deserved how Louis scoffed at that, considering Zayn’s usual aversion to the outdoors or fresh air. Maybe he’d deserved the ribbing he’d gotten about his newfound gardening interest, too. Maybe. Or Louis was just a dick.

 

“How’s things with you and Niall, then?” Louis asks as they watch Lola bound down the hill after the ball. Right to the point, then.

 

“Good,” Zayn says, unable to help the grin that spreads over his face. “Really, really good, actually.”

 

Louis makes a face like he’s going in for a scathing comment, lips set in a tight smile, and then softens and looks back at the massive black dog rolling in the grass. “That’s good, then,” he says. “Good on you.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You helping with his aubergines, then?”

 

Zayn frowns. “Niall’s not growing—“ Louis’ grin spreads wide and maniacal. “—oh, _fuck off,_ would you,” Zayn groans, trying to cuff Louis ‘round the ear and missing when the little shit ducks out of the way, cackling and running off after Lola. “You’re a wanker,” Zayn calls after him.

 

“You’re a wanker, number nine!” Louis shouts back, giggling, and wrestles the ball from Lola’s mouth before sprinting back towards Zayn, nearly knocking him over with Lola hot on his heels, both of them panting.

 

“Good to have you back, mate,” Zayn says, an arm on Louis’ shoulder. He’s not getting choked up. Not a _bit._

 

Louis raises his eyebrows. “Didn’t go anywhere,” he says lightly, but there’s a pull to the corner of his mouth that Zayn knows means _thanks._ He doesn’t comment.

 

Zayn gestures toward the river on their left, a flock of geese alighting on the surface. “Remember when Harry got chased by that goose?”

 

Louis cackles. “Mate, you say that like I don’t watch that video twice a month. At least.” His voice is soft and fond. “Or like I didn’t try to use it for our engagement announcement,” he says, a little wistful.

 

“Didn’t know you’d recorded it,” Zayn says. “Was too busy laughing my arse off.”

 

“See, Zayn, that’s why you’re the pupil and I’m the teacher,” Louis says sagely. “You’ve got to think _long-term._ I’m going to break it out at the wedding, as well, right in the middle of a soppy video that’ll make him cry.”

 

Zayn elbows him. “And you.”

 

“And me,” Louis agrees, then pauses for a moment. “And you, too, don’t think it won’t.”

 

“Oi,” Zayn says, but there’s no heat behind it. Lola barks, clearly impatient. “Yeah, yeah, I hear you.” He tosses the ball. “I love you two, y’know.”

 

“Yeah,” Louis says, not looking at him but smiling. “Yeah.”

 

***

 

Harry gets chased by geese again on Sunday when he, Zayn, Niall, and Louis take Lola to the park. Niall and Louis get it on film from two different angles.

 

***

 

Louis is so not ready for tech week. Louis doesn’t know he’d ever thought he could be ready for tech week. He’s going to _die._ Nothing’s ready. There’s still sound cues to write, half the props have “gone missing,” as Aidan had sworn to him on the verge of tears, and his actors are _still_ forgetting their lines. He _hates_ being the bad guy, having to give the “you need to shape up” speech. He either snaps or cries when he’s frustrated. He’s going to _die._

 

He’s frantically texting everyone who will listen about his imminent death (quite a few people, actually, Louis has good friends and a great fiancé) when there’s a knock at the door of the lighting booth. “What,” he snaps, and then winces. “Sorry, come in, how can I help you?”

 

Olivia’s wary face pokes around the door. “Is this a bad time?”

 

He sighs and locks his phone, setting it face down out of arm’s reach so he won’t be tempted. “What can I do for you, love?” he says, trying to keep his tone as even as possible. _I will not yell at students, no matter how stressed I am. I am an adult._

 

“Could I—you know how I asked you, a couple of months ago, about um, some stuff about, er, gender…” she trails off, fidgeting and biting her nails.

 

“Yeah,” he says, soft. _Maybe._ Maybe he’d read this right. “Are you…” He thinks hard about what to say. “You know anything you tell me, or ask me, is in strict confidence, right?”

 

A watery smile. “Yeah. Thanks, Mr. T.”

 

He waves a hand. “No need for thanks. Just making sure you knew. Nothing leaves this booth. Soundproof, you know,” he says, gesturing at the walls.

 

He gets a giggle at that. “So,” Olivia says, “I’ve been thinking, er, a lot, like, over rehearsals and things, and like, I guess, researching? Some stuff.” A pause. “And, like, I was sort of, freaked out I suppose, or, still am. Freaked out, that is.” A nervous laugh. “So like, what I was sort of trying to ask is like, if I feel—like, if I feel _good_ being like, a boy, on stage, or other people saying that, like…I don’t know. I feel like it might mean something, you know? Or like, maybe that’s stupid.”

 

Louis is definitely going to cry by the end of this conversation. It’ll be very unprofessional. “First of all, that’s not stupid. Never. And if it means something to you, then it means something.” That’s not—that’s clearly not helping, so he changes tack. “We’ve got some time before we have to get back to it. Why don’t you come sit, and we’ll talk.”

 

***

 

Harry’s phone starts buzzing frantically whilst he’s answering emails. _Talk to you soon,_ he types, and doesn’t look at his phone before answering. He’s expecting Nick—there’d been an interview last week at the BBC, and he’s completely prepared his congratulations speech, because Nick is brilliant and the second-funniest person Harry knows after Louis—but it’s not Nick who’s babbling at him when he picks up.

 

“Oh my _God,_ Hazza, sorry if I’m interrupting, or anything, like, are you busy? Alright nevermind I’m _very sorry_ if you are busy but I’m just _flipping out,_ oh my God, one of my students—actors—just came out to me and _oh my God,_ Harry, I like, helped h— _them_ through it, at least a bit, and I’m just, I’m just—“

 

“Lou,” Harry says, grinning, “are you crying?”

 

“Shut _up,”_ Louis whines, and sniffs loudly. “’s been a stressful week, you cried watching that Adam Sandler movie last week.”

 

“Hey.” Harry pouts. “It was sad, alright.”

 

“I know I know I’m just like, _overwhelmed,_ like, Ollie like, had a gender epiphany, through Shakespeare! Through _me_ directing Shakespeare! Like, not to toot my own horn, or whatever, but _oh my God,_ Harry.”

 

“Oh my God,” Harry agrees. “That’s amazing, love. I’m so proud of you.”

 

“I’m proud of _them,”_ Louis chokes out. “Like, they’ve got it together, like, _so much more_ than I did, and it’s just, I’m so _happy._ ” He’s crying hard, and Harry wants to hug him and kiss his hair.

 

“I’m glad, baby. You deserve it.”

 

“I love you,” Louis says. “I’ve got to pull myself together.” He sniffs loudly, breathes out for a long moment. “This is still a fucking disaster of a play. I might actually die.”

 

“I’d be sad,” Harry says. “So would Ganymede.”

 

“She still likes you more,” Louis insists. “It’s not fair. When we get that kitten they have to love me best.”

 

“Okay,” Harry agrees. “I love you.”

 

“I love you too. Right. Hanging up now. Got to go yell at some teenagers, but, like, Encouragingly. God,” he groans. “Remind me why I decided to direct secondary school Shakespeare.”

 

“Because you love it,” Harry says back, “and because you get to help kids be themselves.”

 

“Yeah,” Louis says, and pauses for a long time. “I’m really happy,” he adds, so quietly Harry can barely hear him. “I’m like, really, really happy.”

 

“Me too.” His face feels frozen in its grin, so much that he has to shake himself to dislodge it a bit so that he can see his laptop screen. He’s got three new emails, all of them asking for extensions on essays. The smile stays put.

 

***

 

Niall and Zayn come with them to Jade’s late on Thursday night, both swearing up and down that they _just want to look_ and _are absolutely not thinking about getting a cat, which would be ridiculous._ “Besides,” Zayn says, grinning goofily as they pull up to the little row house, “Might adopt Lola sooner or later. Been talking to Julie about it.”

 

Thirty minutes later, he’s sitting in Niall’s lap with several kittens mewing and crawling over the two of them. Harry can only spare a few glances at them, though, because Louis has the tiniest—he has to be the runt—kitten, a brown and black tabby with a spotted tummy, sleeping on his chest.

 

“He’s so tiny,” Louis whispers. “I don’t want to break him.”

 

Harry thinks, for the briefest of moments, wistfully, about Louis and other small, young things that are so unbelievably fragile, and then shakes his head. What’s in front of him now is perfect. If they end up with more, he’ll be grateful for that, then.

 

“He’s awfully little, isn’t he?” Harry says. “Needs a lot of love, don’t you think. To grow big and strong.”

 

Louis doesn’t look away from the furball on his chest but does roll his eyes in a way that’s clearly directed at Harry. “Please, H. He’s not Clifford. Besides,” he coos, “this little love is perfect just how he is. Aren’t you, baby?”

 

“He is,” Harry agrees. He stares at Louis and the kitten until a squawk from Zayn startles him and he whips around to see Niall falling over himself laughing as Zayn rubs at his nose—apparently, one of the cats had gotten a bit too interested in his nose ring. “Watch out,” he supplies helpfully, getting a withering look in return. Niall winks at him and kisses Zayn on the tip of the nose, making him flush.

 

When he turns back around, the kitten on Louis’ chest has shifted closer to his face, and its little rough, pink tongue is licking at his stubble. Harry snaps a picture before Louis can glare at him, and saves it as his lock screen.

 

***

 

Opening night is Friday. It goes incredibly—standing ovations all around. Louis blows out his voice cheering when Ollie takes their bow.

 

***

 

Ganymede _hates_ the new kitten. Louis had been anticipating as much—watched all kinds of Jackson Galaxy videos in preparation, prepared a system for feeding them together in stages so as to get them acclimated to each other—but it still makes him want to cry when she hisses and takes a swipe at the little thing. He still doesn’t have a name. Nothing suits him. He mews and tucks his huge, bat-like ears down, visibly shaking. Ganymede stares him down for another minute before stalking off with her tail puffed up.

 

Harry kisses his cheek when Louis lets out a despairing sigh. “She’ll come ‘round,” he assures him. “I’ll go talk to her.”

 

“You do that,” Louis says, and ducks to scoop the kitten into his arms, nosing at his soft fur. “Hey, little love,” he coos. “It’s alright. She’s just jealous. Here, let’s go sit.” He moves to put the empty tin in the rubbish, and pauses when he sees a hint of blue under the newspaper. Keeping a tight hold of the new kitten, he bends and pulls at it, before his throat tightens.

 

It’s the mouse Harry had bought for him, weeks ago, when things were falling apart. Louis hadn’t seen it since they’d gotten back, and they hadn’t talked about it. He supposes he ought to put it back and let it go into the skip with the rest of it, but—

 

The kitten mews and stares up at him with wide, blue eyes. “What do you think?” Louis asks him. “Hm?” It’s a little thing—the same size as the kitten in his arms, but he’d…he’d grow into it. He holds it up with a shaking hand for the little cat to sniff at. He bats at it with a paw and then begins chewing with his tiny teeth on one of the ears. When Louis tries to pull it away, he mews angrily and grabs at it with both paws.

 

“Alright,” Louis whispers. “It’s yours.”

 

He carries the cat and mouse over to the sofa and sets them on his chest. The little boy is yawning, mouth open wide and tongue curling, and Louis follows suit, his eyes drooping. He’s not been sleeping well, and he’s only dimly aware that he ought to hide the mouse before Harry comes looking for him. He drifts off before he manages.

 

***

 

Ganymede stares at Harry from under the bed, flicking her tail back and forth. “I know, love,” he tells her. “He’s not replacing you, though. I still love you best,” he says in a stage whisper. “Don’t tell him that.”

 

He’s eventually able to coax her out and into his arms with cheese-flavored treats, which she chews a little haughtily, but she doesn’t leap out of his arms, so he figures it’s just a matter of letting her get over it. “I think you’d like him, if you gave him a chance,” Harry murmurs into her slightly greasy fur.  She meows at him, long and low, like she’s skeptical.

 

“Why don’t we go see them, hm?” Harry suggests. She flicks her tail once. “I’ll get you more treats, come on.” She allows him to keep holding her as he pads down the hallway and even purrs a little when he scratches behind her ears. It’s quiet—Louis might be sleeping, which Harry is glad for, considering how little he’d gotten during the week before the play, and in the months prior. He deserves a rest.

 

Sure enough, Louis is asleep, snoring lightly with his mouth open, on the sofa with the kitten on his chest. There’s something else—as Harry approaches, he makes out something blue clutched between the kitten and Louis. Ganymede jumps down and stalks off to the kitchen, clearly after her dinner, but Harry doesn’t follow.

 

It’s the mouse he’d brought home. He’d hidden it once Louis’ reaction had made sense to him, and tossed it in the bin early this morning to go out with the rubbish tomorrow, but Louis’ fished it out. Harry’s crying before he even knows, and then wipes at his cheeks and feels his face split with a watery grin. Louis had—Louis still—he doesn’t know what words to put to it, but he thinks he knows what it means.

 

He can’t stop himself from leaning over and kissing Louis on his slightly sweaty forehead. Squinty, blue eyes blink up at him, a little disoriented, and then crinkles form at the corners. “Hi love,” Harry says.

 

“Hi.” Louis’ gaze tracks how Harry’s eyes flick to the mouse currently being spooned by their new kitten. “He’s very attached to it, I think.”

 

“Yeah.” Harry’s getting choked up again, but it seems like Louis might be, too, and neither of them can stop smiling. “You thought of a name for him yet?”

 

“Have you?”

 

“We agreed you would name him,” Harry says. “Since I picked something pretentious last time.”

 

“You did,” Louis agrees, and then pauses. “Although,” he starts, chewing on his lip and looking thoughtful, “I do like pretentious, actually.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Well, no,” Louis admits, “But I love you. What do you think about Orlando?”

 

“Orlando?” Harry grins. “Bit of a mouthful, that.”

 

Louis glances at the kitten and makes a little kissy face towards him. He’s still sleeping. “Ollie for short, I think.”

 

“Alright,” Harry says, lowering himself down to sit on the edge of the cushion. Louis’ hand comes up to wrap around his waist and squeeze a little.

 

“Alright,” he says. “Alright.”

 

They are.

 

“…no sooner met but they looked, no sooner looked but they loved, no sooner loved but they sighed, no sooner sighed but they asked one another the reason, no sooner knew the reason but they sought the remedy…they are in the very wrath of love and they will together; clubs cannot part them.”

William Shakespeare,  _As You Like It,_ Act IV, Scene ii

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Neverending thanks to Annie, who was my cheerleader/enabler throughout and whose response to my every painful suggestion was, more or less (often very literally), this:
> 
> And PROFUSE, ETERNAL thanks to [Alex](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarov/) for beta-ing this mess. You are an angel & a guiding light. 
> 
> Once again, please feel free to comment (I'd love it!) or message/@ me on tumblr (churchrat) or Twitter (kay_leonora)
> 
>  


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